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Cepight N°_Z. 


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TINTS OF MOOD AND 
TREE AND BROOK 

BY 

EDWARD EMMETT BOWEN 


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COPYRIGHT NINETEEN HUNDRED EIGHTEEN 


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JOUSTINGS 









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FOREWORD 


Through meadow gates and fragrant hedges; 

By mantled pools and fallen trees; 

By babbling brooks where thick grass wedges; 
Through dewey fern with the humming bees. 

Through last year’s leaves in hollow places, 

And vistas green arched overhead; 

Through sunlit spots and shady traces 
Of shadows flitting like spooks in dread. 

The whistling squirrel springs through the branches; 
The robins chirp and thrushes trill; 

The rabbit rests upon his haunches, 

And listening, leaps across the rill. 

Through solemn gloom of gloaming darkness 
From mass of leaves on trees o’erspread, 

There comes a burst of brilliant brightness 

When sun peeps through a branch o’erhead. 

* * * * 

The mem’ries which drip Sir, 

From youth’s early teens, 

And seep through the sorrows 
Which tinge too, our dreams, 

Bring to us the fragrance 
Of sweet scented rose, 

Through fields, which the by-ways 
And highways—enclose. 

The old thoughts which linger 
And cause us to blush, 

Are ever awakened 
With the trill of the thrush, 

While the song of the robin 
In twilight, when clear, 

Brings to us a heart throb 
Which hastens—a tear. • 


—3— 


Then thoughts too, come to us 
When looking through space, 

With a smile,—now so near us 
On a well beloved face, 

And the sound of a gurgle 
A sweet note,—a laugh, 

That trills all the future 
Which now seems,—but half. 

These thoughts which with day dreams 
Are tinted so rare,— 

So hazy, so dream-like, 

So filmy,—yet fair, 

Are tinged too, with heart thrills 
Which make us to seem, 

A part of this future,— 

A throb of this dream. 

* * * * 

Wrapt in melody of old time song, 
Which through the ages come to throng 
The memory, with strains of tune, 

Like shadows from the distant moon. 

And now the dreamer softly plays 
The tunes in trills of other days, 

While swift the fingers touch the keys 
Which open dreams of—yesterdays. 


4 





JOUSTS 


JOUSTS? 


Just a smile Dear, 

A pure creation, 

A symptom of thought strangulation, 

Where nothing dreamed of 
Doth appear, 

Just a wrinkle,—with nothing near. 

Just a smile, Dear, 

An indication, 

Of nothing, only imagination 
That smiling pleases 
Or else deceives 

The—smiled at person—, the “smiled” believes. 

* * * * 

Just a smile Dear, 

A facial friction. 

Where naught of fact 
Disturbs a fiction. 

And all of fancy 
Without a thought, 

Is painted—empty, 

Or else forgot. 

Just a smile Dear, 

An artful action 
Of muscles moving 
In distraction,— 

A spasm spreading 
For a while: 

A phantom—vacant, 

Yet—a smile. 

* * * * 

Just a love thrill 
Throbbing through. 

From an eye-glance 
Dear,—from you: 

Just a current 
From a flash 
Of a love gleam 
Neath a lash. 





Just a love throb 
From the heart 
Which is thrilling 
Every part, 

Just a love lisp, 
Words,—a dream: 
Speech is silence— 
Love—between. 


Just a nose upon a face. 

Moving gentle—like a trace 
Of a shadow from a roll 
Wiggling gently,—from a hole. 

Just a nose which no-one knew 
That as nose, it ever grew,— 
Placed above an opening wide 
Which no lips could ever hide. 

Just a nose with nervous twitch, 
As if something born to itch 
Had been fastened on a face 
There,—to wiggle,—any place. 

Just a nose and—nothing more: 
All things added, to encore, 

Just a roll of nothing less 

Than a seam of nothin-ness. 

* * * * 

Just a flower born to blush 
For an hour—then to crush, 

Just a rose upon a stem. 

Torn—to wither,— 

Whither,—when ? 

Just a faded little rose, 

Pinned and jaded on his clothes, 
Neath a smoking cigarette,— 
Born to wither, sure—you bet. 

* * * * 

Just a dream of better days; 

Just a hope through hazy ways: 
Just a love of old time trails: 

Just a faith in brighter tales. 


—7— 


Just a sigh which softens tears, 
Just a glimpse of other years, 
Just a peep into the past, 

Just this dream,—is ail I ask. 


Just a hate, which never dies, 

Which onward, upward, ever flies. 

Just a sting, which ever smites, 

And never quenches, through the rights. 

Just a hate, which always burns, 

Which inward, outward, ever turns. 
Just a dream, which never lies, 

And never falters through the sighs. 

★ * ★ ★ 

Just a taste of common sense, 

Oozing, trickling somewhere, whence? 
Just a drip of something sane, 

Flits across a clouded brain. 

Just a thought from out the past, 

Like a shadow traveling—fast, 

Passes dimly through the mind: 

Giving sight to eyes,—long blind, 

Of a face,—now fading,—fair: 

Sparkling eyes too soft to stare, 

Rosebud cheeks, with tinted blush: 
Beauty painted with life’s brush. 

Just a dream too short to scan, 

Gliding inward through this man: 

Just a shadow of a trace 
Of sense upon a senseless face. 

★ * * * 

Just a sigh from old winds freighted 
With a fragrance of the past. 

Just a whiff from old blooms wafted 
Through the chilling arid blast. 

Just a sigh from old eyes sparkling 
Through a brilliance softly sheened: 
Just a chain of old ties breaking 
Through the strain of ages—dreamed. 



Just a topic no-one thinks of,— 

Just a subject doomed to die. 

Just a love glance gleamed un-noticed: 
Just a twinkle of an eye. 

Just an object no-one cares for,— 

Just a fool thing, born for fun. 

Just a love lisp with a heart sting: 

Just a tickle from a tongue. 

* it it it 

Just a rose which in mid-winter 
Chilled and crusted o’er with ice, 
Clings to bush, while from its center 
Blush tints spread to tinge it twice. 

Just a rose which blushes deeply 
Through the snowflakes falling fast. 
Just a rose which swaying meekly 
Charms the chill from out the blast. 


Just a new blush from an old rose 
Left to wither, fade and die. 

Just a sunbeam through a moongleam 
From a clouded darkened sky. 

Just a new blush through the old leaves, 
Withered crumpled,—faded through,— 

Just a new blush through the old bush,— 
Just an old tint—over due. 


Just a tutored smooth tongued rascal, 
Cultured, curried slick and clean: 

One of those who knows the fashion,— 
When to fawn, and when to—scream. 

Just a fulsome flowery speaker,— 
Dreamy, dazzling, sparkling, bright: 

One of those who streaks the sunshine 
To paint visions of the night. 

Just a tinted thorough rascal,— 

Tinged with taint so deep within, 

That all light which shines hereafter 
Could not find one spot in him. 


—9— 


Just an opal polished thinker,— 

Smeared with truth to cover crime: 

One of those whom social laughter 
Glints with gems to jewel slime. 

* * * * 

Just a smile in sorrow set. 

Just a hope from vain regret. 

Just a joy which peeps through pain. 

Just a dream which dawns again. 

Just an ache which tinges thought: 

A throb of grief in joy begot. 

Just a pang which taints a theme. 

Just a sob,—with smiles between. 

Just a ray through sorrow’s cloud. 

A thrill of life within a shroud. 

Just a gleam of softest gloam,— 

Which tinges grief with thoughts of home. 

Just a dart which pierces through 
All the joys we ever knew. 

Just a hope we can’t reclaim, 

Which paints a smile in tints of pain. 


Just a theme of softest touch: 

A pleasant thought which softens much. 

Just a dream which soothes the mind 
And gives to grief that gentler kind. 

Just a gleam of slightest tint 

From brighter days, where sunbeams glint: 

A newer shade of softer gloom. 

Where hopes are forming o’er the tomb. 

Just a smile of slightest trace,— 

Sarcastic like,—stamped on a face. 

Just a twitch,—a throb, a thrill 
Which frozen once, seems frosted still. 

Just a smile, deep set within, 

Which seeping through—breaks out on him 
Just a smile which seems to say 
Sarcastic like, I’ve worked my way. 


—10— 





Just a little pansy 
With a violet blush: 

A tiny leaflet 
Made of velvet plush, 

A soft tinged tinsel 
Of varied hues,— 

From the brightest yellow 
To the softest—blues. 

Just a little pansy 
With soft violet tints,— 

A tiny leaflet 

Which of velvet—hints. 

A deep tinged flower 
Where colors ooze 
From the brightest yellow 
To the softest—blues. 

★ * * * 

Just an old odd relic 
Of an ancient ruin,— 

Where the thistles scatter 
And the gymsoms bloom; 

Where the ivies clasping 
The seared brick wall 
Seem with their tendons 
To stop its fall. 

Just an old odd relic 
Where the sunbeams gloam. 

And all of bright tints 
Seem to lose their tone. 

Where the buzzards circle 
And the “hoot owls” cry, 

And the winds keep mourning 
And all things sigh. 

* it it it 

Just a heart throb slightly thrilled 
With a hope dream half fulfilled: 
Just an aching fear of heart 
That this love theme, may depart. 

Just a heart throb tinged from truth 
With a love thrill filmed from youth. 
Just an aching fear of mind, 

That this love may prove unkind. 


Just a notion,—half a giggle, 

Of a motion like a wiggle,— 
Which o’erspreads the upper lip 
To make it,—from the under slip. 

Just a tingle from a trickle 
Of a jingle in a tickle,— 

Which o’erspreads the other half, 
As it slips into a laugh. 


Just a tear which trickles slowly 
Down the cheek of middle age. 

Just a fear which saddens surely 
All the thoughts upon life’s page. 

Just a theme which tints tomorrow 
With the tinge of yesterdays: 

Just a dream of last year’s sorrow 
Which now fogs the next with haze. 


Just a flower,—nothing rude, 

On a stamen almost nude: 

Nothing left but withered leaves 
Rustling with the wind,—which grieves. 

Just a flower bleaching pale: 

Listening to the moaning wail 
Of the wind and rustling leaves, 

As the one,—with other, grieves. 

★ ★ ★ * 

Just a fever filmed with flush, 

Painting cheeks with beauty’s blush, 
Brightening eyes with brilliant beams, 
Filling mind,—with lurid dreams. 

Just a fever tinged with dread, 

Painting spooks around the bed,— 
Scattering saints ’mong demons blue 
Filling mind with dreams untrue. 

★ ★ * * 

Just a foolish little fly 
Buzzing briskly near the eye, 

Trying for to take a sip 

Of these gleams which from it,—slip. 


—12— 


Just a foolish little fly,— 

Busy buzzing telling why 
It so loves these little flashes 
Which light up the maiden’s lashes. 

* * * * 

Just a lively little fellow 

With a voice so rich and mellow, 

Chanting themes from golden dreams. 

Just a happy little urchin 

Who had never gone a-searching 

For the gleams which sorrow sheens. 

Just a gleeful joyous singer 
With a tone which loves to linger, 
Singing lays of olden days. 

Just a lively little fellow 

With a voice so rich and mellow, 

Painting ways through golden haze. 

* * * * 

Just a perfume one-time sweet 
From a flower sometime neat: 

Just a wilted faded rose 
Clinging to a dude-let’s clothes. 

Just a faded wilted rose, 

Drooping dying on some clothes: 
Oozing perfume sometime sweet 
From its petals one-time neat. 

Just a flower, nothing more, 

With some fragrance scattered o’er: 
Just an old rose wilted dead, 

Clinging to a maiden’s head. 

Just an old rose wilted dead. 

Wobbling o’er this maiden’s head: 

Just a flower nothing more 
With some fragrance scattered o’er. 

* it it it 

Just a face and nothing more,— 

A something filmy which he wore 
Upon the front part of his head 
While all the rest of him seemed fled. 


—13— 


Just a face a feature slight, 

Which wiggled sometimes in the light, 

As, if a twitch of smile forgot 
Were breaking through in one lone spot. 
Just a face—the merest shell 
Of something lifelike on a pill: 

A kind of something painted there 
Which gave the pill a vacant stare. 

Just a face which somehow grew 
Upon his head, why? no-one knew: 

It never laughed, or grinned, or smiled, 

But seemed to grow there,—simply wild. 

* * * * 

Just a gloam of nether night 
Which comes to gloom a day so bright, 
Where happy thoughts and thrills of cheer 
Paint all of joys in smile-blends near. 

Just a gloam which glooms the day, 

And drives all thrills of joy away: 

Those happy thoughts are now but gleams 
Which glint through haze of distant dreams. 


Just a tear drop oozing nigh, 
Peeping through a muffled sigh. 
Brilliant as the morning dew 
Filled with tints of diamond hue. 

Just a tear drop from a friend, 
Who has brilliants now to lend: 
Little pearl drops oozing nigh 
From a dreamy filmy eye. 


Just a smile so vague and broken, 

Just a gleam of tinted care: 

Wrinkled wreaths of grief’s own token,— 
Just a smile—in frowns—laid bare. 

Just a smile encased in trouble, 

Just a glint of joy so brief: 

Just the casings of a bubble 
Which is filled with sadder grief. 


—14— 


Just a tongue without a trill 
Sweet words spoken—sounding ill. 
Just a lisp of love so sad,— 

That all love tones seem—too bad. 

Just a tongue of all tongues drear, 
Sad tones tempting terrors near: 
Sighs from sadness seeping through 
Each sweet word he ever knew. 


Just a laugh without a trace 
Of any smile which tints a face. 

Just a tone tinged with a shriek 
The kind of thrill deliriums speak 
Just a shadow past and gone: 

A light through darkness, shade and sun : 
Just a passing cloud of mist 
Just a smile with shadows kissed. 


Just a little sigh of love 
From a shadow from above, 

Just a thrill of pure delight 

Which comes throbbing through the night. 

Just a smile which brightens space 
As a star shoots out of place: 

Just a ray of purest love 
From this shadow from above. 

Just a gleam of rarest light 
Which now tints the darkest night : 

Just a twinkle twinkling near 
From an eyelash—ever dear. 

Just a little gem of love 
Falling from the skies above: 

Just a light of purest ray 
Making night eternal day. 


Just a blush fresh painted, Dear: 
Flushed with carmine,—tinted near 
Two little dimples slightly made 
From a shadow mixed with shade. 


—15— 


Just a lash of lovely hair 
Dipped in varnish richly rare: 

Covering eye-beams sparkling bright 
Fringed with tints of painted night. 

Just a patch of painted skin 
Wrinkling smiles from out within,— 

Just a penciled painted brow: 

A thing of beauty,—moving now. 

Just a scene in colors quaint: 

A gorgeous dream in tinted taint: 

Just a smile—by artist drawn 
On a face retouched—to pawn. 

★ * ★ ★ 

Just a little peach a-blushing, 

Just a little tint of red 

Oozing through two cheeks now flushing 

With the heat of something—said. 

Just a little gem of passion, 

Just a little gleam so bright 

Leaping through two eyes now flashing 

With the spark of love’s own light. 


Just a tinge of beauty: 

Nothing more. 

Just a thing to look at— 

And encore. 

Just a dream in tinted cream 
Of a lovely face-scape scene 
Just a beam of beauty 
From the store. 

Just a task of duty: 

Nothing more. 

To become a beauty— 

Au Revoir. 

Just a little exercise: 

In painting cheeks and tinting eyes, 
With a splash of beauty 
From the store. 


—16— 


Just a gleam of creeping sunshine 
Peeping through a knot-hole near: 
Just a stream of golden sunshine 
Seeping through a room so drear. 

Just a gleam of joyful old-times 
Creeping through an eye-lash near; 
Just a beam of brilliant eye-flames 
Bursting through a dimmer tear. 

* * * it 

Just a notion—nothing more r 
Of what the world may have in store 
For—you and me. 

Just a little touch of thought 
Of what the world must have forgot 
For you and me. 

Just a notion—nothing much: 

Of what we’d like to have and touch— 
Both—you and I. 

Just a little tinted scheme 

Of what we’d like to do and dream: 

Just you and I. 


Just a twitch—which there—did duty: 
Just a flit across the face: 

Just a touch of inlaid beauty 
Which was meant a smile to trace. 

Just a shift of awkward wrinkle 
With a gush of chuckless chaff : 

Just a sound of senseless tinkle 
Which the owner called a laugh. 


Just a feeling of regret 
Which we’d like to now forget, 

Just a kind of mental strain 
Which stings somewhat like a pain. 

Just a dream which kind of thrills 
With a thought which startles ills: 

Just an ache which nowhere ends 
Something—somewhere—near our friends. 


— 17 — 


Just a pang which comes through space 
Like an anguish out of place. 

Just a pain—not well defined 
Which seems nowhere yet confined. 

Just a wind which circling tints 
All our thoughts with hurtful hints: 

Just a feeling of regret 
Which we’d like to now—forget. 

* * * * 

Just a tint with nothing in’t— 

A tinge of space, without a trace 
Of any face. 

Just a thought which when forgot 
Now, leaves a fear—a feeling queer 
Of someone—near. 

Just a dream of something seen— 

Though when—or where—or foul, or fair, 

No eye can swear. 

Just a whim, which seems to limn 
The atmosphere with photos near: 

Of smile—and tear. 

* * * * 

Just a gleam, so far away 
That but the faintest smallest ray 
Comes glinting through the misting space 
To paint a smile on someone’s face. 

Just a light which from afar 
Comes peeping through as, if a star 
Had dropped a smile through twinkling space 
To paint a gleam on—every face. 

* * * * 

Just a sadness—not a sorrow: 

Tinged with thoughts of joy tomorrow. 

Just a dream of better hours 
Filled with fumes of sweeter flowers. 

Just a shadow rayed with faith gleams 
Tinged with hope of love’s sweet youth dreams 
Just a whiff of fragrant flowers 
Through a glimpse of better hours. 


— 18 — 


Just an old smile from an old friend: 

The smile which comes from out the past: 

From boyhood days, when youth’s bright rays 
Tinged cheeks with tints which could not last. 

Just an old smile from an old friend: 

From pale lips and wrinkled brow: 

Just an old smile in the old style— 

A smile which beams more brilliant—now. 


Just a flower: a pansy blossom 
Drenched with rain and spread o’er earth; 
Just a sun ray which tints this flower 
And brings to life this pansy’s mirth. 

Just a fellow: a fellow’s brother 
Blenched with grief and bowed to earth; 
Just a smile Sir which tints this fellow 
And brings to life—this fellow’s worth. 


Just a rose—a fading flower 
Which now, but chills within the hour: 
Where petals drooping, still with blush: 
Shriveling—pleads for tongues to hush. 

Just a rose—in beauty tinted, 

One large white rose with blushes painted: 
Its petals drooping—torn from bush, 
Shriveling—pleads for cheeks to blush. 


Just a simple playful smile. 

Sweetly pleasing all the while: 

Just a deft,—though pleasant grin 
Shadowing soulful dreams within. 

Just a dreamy hazy trace 
Of something lurking ’neath a face: 
Just a touch of sinful art,— 

Tinged with love to play the part. 

Just a wiggling little smile, 

Sneaking smoothly all the while 
O’er the lips, and cheeks, and chin,— 
Shielding all that sleeps within. 


Just a smiler’s smile-tone tint,— 
Where but love gleams only glint: 
Just a touch of serpent’s taint. 

To hide the sneer beneath the paint. 


Just a seed of hope—a thought 
Sprouting where,—twas near forgot: 

A little germ which starts to grow 
Where hope was scattered—long ago. 

Just a seed of hope,—a sprout 
A kind of gleam,—which softens doubt 
A little spray of better thought 
Nooked in a lone forgotten spot. 

* * * * 

Just a fool thought Sir 
Which causes a smile: 

A nudge Sir—of nothing 
Which tickles awhile. 

Just a queer dream Sir 
Of something so small, 

A kind of a chuckle 
O’er nothing at all. 

Just a fool thought Sir 
Which kind of peeps in: 

A sort of a dreaming 
Which puckers the chin, 

A kind of a tickle 
Which sleeps in a thought, 

And loosens the wrinkles 
Of some smile—forgot. 


— 20 — 


GLOAMS AND GUESSES 



Into the shade of perfect green 
Where sunlight leaps and peeps between, 
And Hits with joy: 

Into the shades of quiet rest 

Where thrush and robin build their nests, 

And tempt the boy 

To mirthful screams. 

Into these depths of perfect shade 
Where dreams of hope and love are made, 
And fancies thrill: 

Into this heart of fluttering trees 

Where brooklets bathe the scattered leaves, 

And twilights fill 

The dawn of dreams. 

Into this sphere of tint’s repose 
Where daisies, bluebells and the rose 
O’er-dot the ground: 

Into this dreamy quiet nook 

Where diamonds sparkle from the brook 

And flash around, 

I’ll take a stroll. 

Into this home of idle boy 
Which gives to age the thrill of joy, 

And paints its youth: 

Into this nook of nature’s dream 

Where old men think that boys—they seem, 

And wicked truth 

Ne’er taints the soul. 


Melancholy—thou art gone: 

And with thee too 

All tints which paint the purplish hue. 
The sun’s now bright,— 

And grass more green, 

And all of nature seems—agleam. 

Melancholy—thou art gone: 

And with thee too 

The sigh which caused the trees to brew. 
The winds now blow 
A sweater moan, 

And all of nature seems at home. 


— 22 — 





Melancholy—thou art gone: 

And with thee too 

The gloam which gloomed the sparkling dew. 
The brooklet breathes 
A gurgling lisp, 

And all of nature seems more crisp. 

Melancholy—thou art gone: 

And with thee too 

The dream which darkened all I knew. 

Those sad, sad thoughts, 

Are sadder—when 

We think of nature, as,—of men. 

★ * * * 

An old man’s fancy: 

A clouded dream. 

A half-remembered 
Forgotten theme. 

A joy-thought tinting 
A saddened heart: 

A smile-gleam sparkling, 

Where—shadows part. 

An old man’s fancy— 

With youth—when vain: 

When new thoughts wander 
To old—again. 

A dream of old times 
So far—away,— 

That only fancy 
Could lead—astray. 

An old man’s fancy: 

A dream,—that’s all: 

Where old hopes gather 
In groups—to fall: 

A happy hope scene 
When hopes were high. 

And naught but hope gleams 
Could tint a sigh. 

An old man’s fancy— 

When dreams draw near, 

And all of hope seems 
Too hopeless here: 


— 23 — 


An hour’s pleasure 
With hopes untrue: 

To dream these dreams Dear 
Anew—Anew. 

* * * * 

Let me sink to my tomb Dear, 

As the sun sinks to rest. 

Let my breath fade as gently 
As the tints from the west. 

Let my heart throb as kindly 
As the last flickering ray 
When it tints with its shadows 
The last gleam of day. 

Let me sink to my tomb Dear, 
With mem’ries as green 
As bubble from brooklets, 

With nooklets—between: 

Let me think of the flowers 
And grass and the trees,— 

And the twitter of leaflets 
As they stir in the breeze. 

Let me sink to my tomb Dear, 
With love in my ears, 

With the trills of the song birds 
Which youth alone—hears: 

Let me sound the last treble 
In tune with the thrush, 

And sigh with the winds 
Which sweep the low bush. 

Let me sink to my tomb Dear, 
With hope that a friend 
May greet me and guide me 
To my journey’s end: 

Let me feel a friend’s grasp Sir: 
A love-link’s entwine, 

A hand that holds hope Dear: 

An old friend of mine. 

* * * * 

A feeling akin to a fondness 
For old times, and old friends 
Now gone, 


-24 


Comes o’er me with thrills of a sadness 
When old times in old songs 
Are sung. 

A dreaming akin to a sleeping 
Creeps o’er me when old times 
Seem near: 

Oh Dear me how oft in this creeping, 

I dream of the old friends 
So—dear. 

* * * * ^ 

Some day we’l wander 
Through the bright blue sky, 

And speak to spectres 
In the moon: 

We’l sail through cycles 
Where harmonics sigh. 

To catch a love lisp 
From the tomb. 

Some day we’l wander 
Where the bright stars glow, 

To meet the angels 
Of our dreams: 

We’l trip through meadows 
Where bright brilliants grow 
And gather daisies 
From love—scenes. 


A picture haunts me, so true to life,— 
Transcendent sweetness,—tinged with sad. 

A love-smile tainted with tintless strife, 
Where some of goodness too, blends with bad: 
A face so lovely with eyes so fair,— 

That all of nature with love,—seems there. 

The face is lovely,—all bleached to white, 

The light hair curls too, down below,— 

While soft expression beams from the eyes 
Tinged with a wildness—now all aglow, 

And hope and sorrow too intervene 
To paint distraction o’er her dream. 


— 25 — 


I too, have dreamed Dear, what others dreamed. 
And tried to dream Dear, the same dreams o’er. 
For all of earth Dear, seemed but, ill themed, 
When your sweet lips Dear, did not encore. 

I too have sought thee, when others smiled, 

And tried to woo thee, to love thee more, 

For all on earth Dear, seemed not worth whiled 
When your sweet lips Dear said nothing more. 

I too shall love thee when life has fled, 

And no life-themes Dear can intervene: 

The one sweet dream Dear, when I am dead 
Shall be thy smile Dear in one smile dream. 

I too shall seek thee where angels smile 
And try to woo thee, tho God be nigh, 

I’ll try to steal Dear a kiss worth while: 

Just one sweet smile beam to tint the sky. 

★ * * * 

Let me paint her life in the joy: 

Of the fireside circle,— 

And the lively summer group— 

Through the sultry fields at noon time, 

And the shadowy moonlit nook. 

Let me paint her smile: 

The gay outburst of tuneful treble; 

And write her music—there, 

Dipped in love’s own brilliant bubble,— 

Neath the lash of nut-brown hair. 

Let me paint her tear: 

As the gem of glistening nature 
Wells up in sympathy: 

These dreams and a thousand others 

Bring home sweet dreams to me. 

* ★ * * 

Blow a bubble and let it fly 
Off into the tinted sky: 

Thus shall you and I,—too die, 

Die—yes die,—you and I. 

Waft a bubble tinged with blue 
Off into the realms of dew: 

Thus shall you and I too fly, 

Fly—yes fly,—you and I. 


— 26 — 


Like a bubble which none can trace 
Off into o’er-reaching space: 

Thus shall you and I too die, 

Die—yes die,—you and I. 

Like a bubble filled with air 
Whirling, whirling everywhere; 

Thus shall you and I,—too fly, 

Fly,—yes fly,—you and I. 

★ ★ * * 

Tears which drip from dullest eyes 
Oft are tinged with brilliant dyes. 

Diamond sparks from brilliant gems 
Oft times gloam the light of friends. 

Tinted hopes with brilliant theme 
Bring to life a sadder dream. 

Truth is but the duller part 
Of what we think,—the rest is art. 

★ ★ ★ ★ 

Tinted tears ’neath golden lashes 
Brilliant gleams of sorrow’s flashes: 
Trouble’s themes through eye-lash—glow 
In the dreams of—long ago. 

Tears now bright with mem’ries’ dreaming 
Brilliant with the grief thought’s gleaming: 
Trouble’s themes in eye-lash—glow 
Through the dreams of—long ago. 

* * ★ ★ 

In the evening twilight 
When the sun-rays gloam. 

And the moonbeams silver 
The dear old home, 

And the stars slow gather 
With uncertain gleam: 

Tis then I’ll greet thee 
To share thy dream. 

In the morning stillness 
When the dawn is nigh, 

And the sun with moon tints 
Slow paint the sky, 

And the shades of night’s gloom 


27 — 


Still hover near, 

Tis then I’ll kiss thee 

And disappear. 

* * * ★ 

When the moon rays gather 
To haze the gloom, 

And spectres nimble 
Creep from each tomb,— 

And shadows tremble 
As if from fright,— 

Hand in hand—Love 
We’l walk through night. 

When the tree toads treble 
And soft winds sigh, 

And dry leaves rustle 
Like spirits nigh, 

And dew drops brilliant 
As if from fright, 

Hand in hand,—Love, 

We’l walk through night. 

* ★ * * 

In the mid-night forest 
Where the moonlight gloams, 
And the shrill winds whistle 
And the soft wind moans, 

And the “hoot owl” screeches—: 
What a mournful sigh 
Seems to spread all over 
The tree-tops—nigh. 

In the mid-night forest 
Where the darkness glooms, 

And the brooklet bubbles 
As tongues from tombs, 

And whip-poorwill’s whistling—; 
What a mournful sigh 
Seems to spread all over 

The tree-tops—nigh. 

* * * * 

In the cheeks: a blush tinge 
A reflection,— 

Lingering softly,— 

An affection: 


- 28 — 


Just a shade of blushes old 
Which tints the cheeks 
Where griefs are told. 

In the eye: a lustre 
Just a gloom tint,— 

A spark half gloaming 
Tinged with joy spent,— 

Just a beam from pleasures past 
Which tints the eye 
With sorrow’s cast. 

In the voice: a tremor, 

Just a quiver— 

A tone uncertain 
A thrill, a shiver,— 

Just a trace of something sad 
Which tints with grief 
The words—now said. 


In the old time 
Life was blushing 
Now ’tis pale 
With wrinkled care, 
Who can dream 
When youth is gushing, 
How old age 
Shall spend its share. 

In the old time 
Life was laughter, 

Now ’tis moist 
With trickling tear, 

Who can say 
In death’s hereafter 
We shall smile 
Forever—Dear. 

* * * * 

Oh shallowness, 

How much I love thee, 
Sincerity, 

How thee I hate, 

Give me Dear 
A shallow smoothness 


— 29 — 


To hide all thoughts 
When e’er I spake. 

Oh policy, 

How I revere thee. 

And earnestness 
How foolish thou. 

Give me Dear 
A learned lightness 
To hide all hate, 

Beneath my brow. 

* * * * 

A babe so bright with ways so old, 

That all his words are tinged with gold. 

And every sigh is wisdom—sung: 

A prodigy—so wise,—so young. 

A child so wise that all words tint 
A truth profound with every hint, 

And thought so rare, that none can guess 
How one so wise can be so less. 

A “kid” so keen with tongue so sly 
That all of humor seems to die: 

As wisdom wings to every flight 
And foolish phantoms flee from sight. 

Mong men so meek with minds so dull 
That naught but languor haunts their skull: 
How strange this babe,—this youth so bright, 
Should grope in darkness with his light. 

★ * * * 

Something good,—and nothing bad,— 
Something that we should have had: 
Nothing of a something—mean, 

Should be in this nothing dream. 

Something joyful,—nothing sad,— 
Something smiling gleeful—glad: 

Nothing of a something tear 
Should be in this nothing sphere. 

★ * ★ ★ 

Speaking of the olden time 
When laughter was the rule, 

And serious thought had not yet crowned 


— 30 — 




The fashions as a school: 

Don’t you believe that those olden days 
Were better days than these 
When each one tries to not to smile 
And instead of laugh—to sneeze. 

Speaking of the olden times 
Calls back that chuckling tone: 

The rippling gurgling merry laugh 
Where all of mirths at home: 

Oh give me back those olden days, 

Those better days of “teens”, 

When all of life seems joy and play, 

And hope a—better dream. 

ft It * h 

To laugh the laugh 
Which all men laugh, 

And not it over-do, 

Is not so much of ecstasy 
As those who watch— 

Think true. 

To curb this laugh 

And keep within 

The purview of a smile. 

Is not so much a merriment 
As those who look 
Think while. 

To paint this laugh 

With tints of style 

And make those tints shade real, 

Is not, as such,— 

An easy task, 

As those who see,—too feel. 


A grunt,—a snort: 

A trilless rumble 
That sputters out 
A kind of grumble: 

A buzzing bungling 
Bumbling noise,— 

Which knocks the grunter 
Out of poise. 


— 31 — 


A smile,—a laugh: 

An awkard chuckle 
That bubbles through 
A kind of knuckle: 
Which grows upon 
A withered face: 

A sort of hole 
Stretched out of place. 


— 32 — 




HEADS AND FACES 


A touch of the artist 
A trace of his tint, 

In crayon on canvas 
To teach us a hint: 

A blush from his genius 
A smile from his cheek, 

An eyeful of brilliants 
Which fade as we speak. 

A twitch from his mustache, 
A toss of his hair, 

A crimping of eyebrows 
Which teach us to stare: 

A twink of his eyelids 
Which goes with a sneer, 
Brings eye-fulls of brilliants 
For us Sir—to wear. 

it it it it 

And live we must 
Through every hour. 

That tempts with pain 
Or fragrant flower. 

How sweet the face. 

How bright the eye. 

How smooth the tongue. 

And yet,—they lie: 

This face so sweet, 

This eye so bright, 

This tongue so smooth, 

Shall lie—tonight. 

The fragrance of 
A little hour, 

Shall balm the pain 
Of grief’s short hour. 

To not forget 
Is too—not clever 
To think on time 
And pain forever: 

Should any school 
Delight in this: 

How much of folly 
Were in bliss. 


— 34 — 



And yet the fumes 
Of wilted Flowers 
May spoil the fragrance 
Of these hours. 

* * * * 

It matters little 
What we think, 

Or what we do, 

Or what we wear: 

We must move onward 
To the brink,— 

Where all we’l crave 
Is but—a prayer. 

It matters little 
What we know, 

Or what we preach, 

Or tell, or pray: 

We must move onward 
Ever go 

To that last hour 
Of some—today. 

* * * * 

A little breath: 

A lisp of praise 
To please a friend 
And catch his gaze: 

The slightest hint 
Of—nothing much, 

To tint the temper 
Of his touch. 

A gurgling breath: 

A lisp of laugh 
To please a friend 
In your behalf: 

The softest trace 
Of artful guile— 

To tempt the 

Treasure of his smile. 

* * * * 

Come close my friend 
And let me see. 

How much of “you” 


— 35 — 


There is in “thee”: 

If all of “thee” 

Should be but “you” 
There’s naught of “me” 
Which can come through. 

Come close my friend 
A little, near, 

That you and I 
May whisper here: 

And whispering, read 
Each others face 
To see how much 

Of each’s—in place. 

* * * * 

Now here’s a head 
So filmy fat,— 

That all the world 
Might call it flat, 

If it had not 
A haloed sneer 
Which seems to wrinkle 
In a sphere. 

And when it smiles 
Ah—what a grin: 

So full of self, 

Without—within: 

So dreamy like 
And free from style 
Of any line 
Which forms a smile. 

A giant head 
And midget brain, 

Which naught but self 
Could entertain: 

No thought of you 
Could enter here, 

Or penetrate 
Its haughty sneer. 

A lovely head 
So full of hint 
That all of wisdom 


— 36 — 


Paints its squint: 

A Solomon 

Who loves to sneer 

At anything 

Not self-made—here. 


The town is draped 
In mist and fog, 

And all forms move 
In phantom jog,— 

As if uncertain 
Where to find: 

A footing sure, 

Or faces—kind. 

And too a gloom 
Has overspread 
As if from tombs 
The gloomful dead. 
Has ambled forth 
To toll the skies 
In weird moans 
And sadder sighs. 

And now the wind 
The fog rolls by 
As if a “steeple chase” 
From high,— 

Had lost its way 
And brought to earth 
Its “sportive spooks” 

In flying mirth. 

The mist and fog 
Now disappear,— 

And distant doubts 
Draw closer—near, 
And sun-bursts 
Brilliant overhead 
Paints on the world 
A laugh—instead. 


— 37 — 


Should any move of mine displease: 

Be it cough or squint,—or yet a sneeze, 
O’er-look it friend and let it pass: 
Imperfect stamps—perfection’s best. 

Should any word or grunt of thine 
Get mixed with whines and sighs of mine, 
I’m sure you’ll take your thoughts away, 
That mine may not be led astray. 


A shadow slight 
Now flitting by, 

Brings to old age 
A fretful sigh: 

This flitting shade 
Is but, a cloud 
Twixt sun and earth 
In escapade. 

This shadow rolls 
Itself in gloom. 

Now turns itself 
Into a tomb,— 

Then tumbling rolls 
Into a shroud 
Twixt sun and earth: 
This self same cloud. 

This hazy riff 
Which rolls in space, 
Now looks for all 
The world—a face. 

But turning ’round 
This twirling mist 
Twixt sun and earth,— 
Now seems a—fist. 

This sprightly nymph 
Of cloud on high, 

In tumbling antics 
Tempts my eye: 

To flit through shade 


— 38 — 


And join this cloud,— 
Twixt sun and earth 
In—escapade. 

* * * * 

A little topic 
Which no-one talks, 

Just a wink,—or nod, 

To hint the phrase: 

A little gesture 
Which taunts or mocks, 
The mood or fashion 
Of some-one’s ways. 

A little side-glance, 
Perhaps a sneer: 

Just a curl of lip 
To paint the scorn;— 

A little nose-turn 
Which moves the ear 
To hint that some-thing 
Is said—unborn. 

it it if it 

A little athlete 
In pantomime: 

Adroitly nimble 
In hints of face. 

A little angel 
With air Divine 
And all of action 
So filled with taste. 

A little athlete 
So brusquely brisk 
In all things doubtful 
And tinged with prayer. 
A little angel 
Who loves to risk 
His every effort 

On “look who’s there”. 

* * * + 

A tinge of talent: 

Just a trickling taste 
Of genius flashing 
O’er a foolish face: 


— 39 — 


A touch of nature 
With a trace of tint 
Which gives suspicion 
A cause—to hint. 

A gem of greatness 
On a sea of doubt; 

With bubbles splashing 
And spread about; 

A touch of nature 
On a troubled pond 
Which gives suspicion 
A guess—beyond. 

* * * * 

A little sailor 
On a sea of mud, 

With sails inflated 
Where no ship could 
Move any ship 
To ride a wave: 

How trim this ship 
And sailor—brave. 

A little sailor 
On a sea unkind: 

Where dreams inflate 
His reefs of mind, 

And each theme breeds 
A fancy frail,— 
Wherewith no ship 
Should try—to sail. 

★ * * * 

Oh give me eyes 
To sift surprise 
And scale the sails 
Of falser lies: 

To reach the themes 
Which tongues but shield 
That I—more wisdom 
Too may—wield. 

Oh world of beauty, 
Lovely earth: 

So primed with duty 


— 40 — 


Filmed with mirth, 
Paint both my eyes 
A denser hue,— 

That they with pity 
May gleam—true. 

Oh give me ears 
To test the tongue. 

And taste the tone 
In every “pun”: 

To touch the dreams 
Which eyes too, tint, 
That I,—more fancies 
Too,—may hint. 

Oh world of duty 
Prayerful earth. 

So filled with beauty, 
Famed with worth: 
Tune both my ears 
With tunes so rare 
That naught but music 
May—ensnare. 

★ * ★ 

A marble tongue 
Is grown witty, 

A heart of stone 
Is tinged with pity, 

An icy nose, too. 

Melts with—love, 

And onyx eyes 
Glow soft—above. 

An iron face 
Now seems to smile: 
Two chilly lips 
Part for—awhile, 

And each on each 
A kiss impresses. 

While—self to self— 
True love addresses. 

★ * * 

Of all good moods 
Which tinge the mind 


— 41 — 


There is none so friendly 
Pure and kind?— 

As those which prompt 
The listening ear, 

To search for tales 
Of trouble—near. 

For ear in man 
Is so immuned, 

That it to trouble 
Grows attuned: 

It nears the trend 
Of trouble talk: 

And probes each pain, 
And feels each—shock? 


An idler itching 
For deeds sublime, 
Twirling thumbs, too, 
To pass the time: 
Praying for light 
To measure—space, 
That he in time 
May find his face. 

And now methinks 
His face is found, 

For there’s a “chuck” 
Of a softer sound: 

As around his beard 
He fondles space— 
His hand is almost 
On—his face. 


An artful wit 
With humor bold, 
Streaked every story 
That was told,— 

And then: as laughter 
Leaped to space, 

A kind of twitch 
Just moved a—face. 


A little touch, 

Almost a nudge, 

Seemed wiggling through 
A subter-fudge: 

And then: a spasm 
Thrilled a—face 
And all of laughter 
Tickled—space. 

A little smirk,— 

Almost a smile, 
O’erspread a feature 
For—awhile. 

And then: in flight 
These wrinkles fled 
And tickled space. 
Around a—head. 

This face so near: 

So solemn—sad, 

That each new wrinkle 
Seemed—more mad: 

Had too,—new frowns 
Of lighter thought. 

Which none but it 

Had ever caught. 

* * * * 

How much of truth 
Still clings to space, 

Can ne’er be filmed 
Through a face: 

For faces now 
Are staged with eyes 
Which film nothing 
To the—wise. 

An eye which paints 
An earnest truth,— 

Is young—too young 
To twinkle youth. 

The baby’s sparkler 
Knows more grace: 

Than tint a truth 
On its frail face. 


And now a sad thought 
Paints a smile 
And makes of laughter 
Just—a trial 
To fool the fool 
Who thinks you—glad: 
When all your thoughts 
Are sad—more sad. 

And so each fool 
Is fooled—so fast 
That all of foolishness 
May—last: 

And each deceit 
May tint a smile 
To fool each fool 
A little—while. 


A man so insincerely sad 

That all his inner thoughts were glad, 

While all his outer looks implored 
That naught but grief in him was stored. 

A joyful heart with beat so mild 
That every throb—exultant, wild,^ 

But made his breast appear to weep 
As though, ’twere heaving sobs through sleep. 

With gleeful mind, and thoughts so gay, 
That all his dreams were brilliant day,— 

Yet tale of joy,—or tint of fun, 

Ne’er came from his most sad-edged tongue. 

And yet,—so near his saddest gleam 
Lurked too,—the brightest gems of dream, 

And bouyant humor, wit and “pun” 

Slept silently beneath his tongue. 


Look at him in another light, 

The gloam which smothers all of night: 
The haze which glints him all agleam 
With tints which wrap him in a dream. 


Look at him in the darker gloom 
Of any shade which shadows tomb. 

And see if we can catch a ray 

Which could,—or should—make him more gay. 

Look at him in his sombre mood, 

When any light could be called good: 

When all his hopes are fading fast 
And none,—now seem—to him, to last. 

Look at him, when his love has flown, 

And all his dreams,—are too,—called home. 
Look at him in his waning smile,— 

And tell us, that its now—worth while. 

* it it it 

Tis strange how much of foolish thought 
Comes seeping through the wisest head,— 

How much of folly too—forgot, 

Shall shine again when all is said. 

When all of wisdom floats through space, 

And each tongue paints his wisest dream— 
Can any fool who has a face 
Suppress a smile,—when his is seen? 

* * * * 

Let’s paint a face upon a cloud 
And let it smile and laugh aloud, 

So that each fairy in the sky 
May catch the twinkle of an eye. 

Let’s paint the face upon the moon,— 

That face so aged and full of gloom: 

Let’s tint it up,—at least make glad 
This old face now,—so worn and sad. 

Let’s paint a face upon each star 
To wink and smirk and twink afar: 

And make of night a pleasant day 
As each star twinks a smile—away. 

Let’s paint a face upon the breeze 
So that each whiff from off the trees, 

Shall add a smile to every chill 
And each small sigh can laugh its fill. 



A touch of sadness, just a trace, 

Enough to tint a joyful face: 

A tinge of sorrow, painted glad, 

A smile all sweet,—yet tinged with sad. 

A tinge of sorrow in a smile, 

Enough to paint a thought worth while: 

A hope out-dreamed,—which leaves a trace 
Of something sad about the face. 

* * * * 

A touch of thought, 

A trace—a streak, 

An idle whim— 

A phantom freak, 

A little dream 
So foolish—vain, 

’Twould make one fear 
To dream again. 

A tint of smile 
So faint—so slight: 

An eye-gleam 

Gloaming through its light,— 

A little smile 
So useless—vain, 

’Twould make one fear 
To smile again. 


Oh how good, and too how queer, 

Jim now looks: Why lad come here; 
Surely you’re not going to die: 

Why listen to the fellow sigh. 

Now, by Joe, he seems to pray: 
Lisping sure—a solemn say: 

Gazing too, as if he thought 

His God would kiss him on the spot. 

* * * * 

A tiny twitching in the air, 

A kind of gloaming ’neath the hair, 

A ray of opal, moon-gloomed nigh: 

A subdued sparkle from the eye. 


— 46 — 


A tinge of purple in the flush: 

A kind of mourning through the blush, 
A tint of gloaming in the cheeks 
A sort of sadness,—so to speak. 

* * n * 

A soft brown eye 
So soft—with light: 

Those tints which tinge 
The day with night— 

Seems blended in 
A ray so pure,— 

That naught in light 
Seems there—obscure. 

This soft brown eye 
Now searching—near 
For hints which may 
Avert a tear: 

For friendly smiles 
Or quiet token,— 

To steal the stings 
From words—ill spoken. 

A soft brown eye 
So wrapt in beams: 

That all its twitches 
Twinks with gleams, 

And all its twinkles 
Seem to glow,— 

With purest \o\e 
For all—below. 

This soft brown eye 
So searching,—seeks: 

A smile from face 
Where true love sleeps: 

For smile untinged 
With any token 
Of thoughts unkind 
Though—yet unspoken. 

* * * * 

Out of a gleam 

From a shadowy dream 

Comes a smile 


— 47 — 


That leads to a golden theme 
Where heart throbs tried 
Their throbs to hide, 

And all of face 
And tongue—denied. 

Out of a gleam 
From a silvery stream, 

A ripple 

Now shadows a love-lit theme 
And tears now rise 
To age-dim eyes, 

And all of faith 
And hope—denies. 

it it it it 

This old, old painting: 

A master's touch,— 

Faded and fading. 

Yes faded—much, 

Has still the stroke 
Of artistic grace 
Which only an artist 
Can give a—face. 

This old, old painting: 

So old, yet true, 

Has all the colors 
A master knew,— 

And with these tints 
A taste—so rare. 

That naught but beauty 
Films the—air. 

* * * * 

If all the thoughts 
Which thrill to joy 
Were painted on my mind. 
And you—fair heart,— 

Were not in touch, 

Pd still feel sad,—unkind. 

If all the dreams 
Which make us sad, 

Were filmed on my eye. 

And you—Dear Heart,— 


Should speak of love 
I’d bid them all Good By. 

* * * * 

And now a star 
Comes peeping through 
The rolling shifting cloud: 
While all of anger 
Seems to brew 
In peals of thunder—loud. 

A little star: 

A twinkling trace 
Of hope,—where all seems fear, 
Comes creeping through 
The storm streaked space. 

To still the startled—tear. 

* * * * 

A little chuckle,— 

Not a laugh,— 

A sort of grunt. 

Of smile—but half: 

A kind of breathing 
Half immersed,— 

As if within 

Some bubbles—burst. 

A little wrinkle 
Crouching nigh 
Around the ear 
And ’neath the eye: 

A kind of twitching 
O’er the face,— 

As if a pucker 
Lost its place. 

* * * * 

’Tis beauty fading 
In a pallid cheek: 

The blush tints waning 
As the wrinkles creep, 

While the eyes too, darken 
With uncertain light 
As the shadows hasten 
Through the mind in fright. 


— 49 — 


Tis beauty fading 
As age draws nigh, 

While love thrills lessen 
And the hope gleams die, 

And the eyes grow gloaming 
From a lack of light, 

As the shadows gather 

For the last Good Night. 

* * * * 

Sweeter flowers 
Ne’er had grown, 

Than these “two-lips” 

Too thine own: 

Which now presses 
Close on mine: 

Spreading fragrance 
Wholly—thine. 

Sweetest spring buds. 

Beauties—fair, 

Blushing deeply— 

Tintings—rare: 

Lovely “two-lips” 

Best of flowers, 

Fill with fragrance 

All my hours. 

* * * * 

What a funny little fellow 

Foul within, and streaked with yellow: 

Filmy fancies fluttering nigh, 

Painting cheek and brightening eye 
With a picture of a dream 
Which but he,—alone could theme. 

What a pompous little strutter: 

Filling sidewalk, street and gutter, 

With these fancies fluttering nigh, 
Painting clouds o’er darkening sky 
With these pictures of his dream 

Which but he, alone could theme. 

* * * * 

I wish I were a little beauty: 

Full of fun,—without a duty, 

Just a trill from out the thrush 


— 50 — 


Which lodged in flesh to paint a blush. 

I wish I were a little fairy 
A film of light without a care—eh: 

Just a beam from out the sky 
Which lodged ’neath lash to tint the eye. 


A lovely lady 

With a luscious tongue : 

A blended beauty 
With a blush—too young, 

A roll of wrinkles 
Rolled out of place. 

That youthful wiggles 
Might move her face. 

A lovely lady 

With a burlesque bloom, 

Infancy painted 

On a human tomb: 

A gushing giggle 
Of ripples—rare, 

From pink cheeked darlings 
With—auburn hair. 


I loved her: 

Not for her tunic—or 
Dark clustering hair, 

Nor dimpled cheek: 

I loved her 
Because of music 
Which thrills the heavens 
When angels speak. 

I loved her: 

But not for her beauty, 

Or sweet kissing lips, 

Nor softer skin: 

I loved her 
Because of duty— 

A command from heaven: 
I think from—Him. 


A dear thought of old times 
Which comes from above: 

An old thought of old friends 
Of dreams which we—love. 

A stray beam of sunshine 
Which breaks through a cloud: 

An old gleam of loved times 
Which spring from the shroud. 

A sweet smile from old friends 
Which hangs on the mist, 

A sweet word from old tongues 
Which comes when we—list. 

A soft touch of old hands 
Which stretch from the past: 

A handshake of old friends 
The clasp,—which shall last. 

* * * * 

A face,—so covered with a pall, 

That eyes, and nose, and mouth and all 
Seem but a stolid fleshly wall, 

To keep within,—not much, at all. 

A face so wrinkled with a sneer: 

That chin and nose and “pate” appear,— 
As if the lights within the head, 

Were blown out,—or gone to bed. 

* * * * 

And now a “phiz” 

So dark and hairy. 

Appears thro’ tint 
So hazy—scarey: 

That all of form 
Seems out of place,— 

So crooked is 
Each wrinkled—trace. 

This face so dim: 

A sketchy notion 
Of sensely whim 
Rough set,—in motion: 

Had once been meant 
Without a doubt, 


For some-one’s face 
Ne’er carried out. 


And now Dear Friend, 

Do let us love. 

The man who speaks 
So like a dove: 

That each round word 
Seems softly blent 
With all the tones 
Which seem well meant. 

A messenger 
Of peace so pure. 

That language 
Only can obscure. 

The heights of peace 
And depths of love 
Which spurt below 
And spill—above. 

* * * * 

And too My Dear, 

Let us forego,— 

The hate which swirls 
In undertow,— 

That it may not 
An angel toss,— 

While bathing in 
Our mirth mined floss. 

A crocodile 
With shadow tears 
So brilliant with 
Love-lisping fears: 

And lamb-like look 
With nearly grace 
Enough, to paint 
A Demon’s Face. 

* * * * 

Pearled with the dew. 

And tinted with sun: 

The gossamer floats through space. 
Fastened to somewhere 


It seems to have run 

From nowhere to no other place. 

Gemmed with sunbeams 
The clear sparkling dew, 

Gleams brilliantly bright today: 

Oh could now these beams 
But lend tints so true,— 

I’d borrow at least,—just one ray. 

I’d steal this beam 
All tinted with sun,— 

From gossamer floating through space. 
And then try to climb 
As others have done,— 

From nowhere to some other place. 

Imprisoned gleam 
In clear sparkling dew,— 

All brilliantly bright today. 

Oh could but the tears 
From some sorrow,—true, 

But borrow at least,—just one ray. 


And here comes a shadow 
A—darker stroke,— 

Twirling onward 
Like a roll of smoke,— 

Casting a pall on every shrine,— 

From castles of thought 
To—temples of time. 

And now comes a sun-burst 
So bright—between, 

Darting downward 
Like a lightening gleam, 

Tingeing each shade with a brighter ray, 
And wrapping these shadows 
In tints of day. 

And so with these shadows 
Of deeper thought— 

Twirling ever 
Though never forgot,— 


— 54 — 


Casting a shade o’er lighter themes, 
And painting with gloom 
The happier dreams. 

One year with another, 

Now dark,—now bright, 

Twirling onward 
Into ever night,— 

Casting a shade on lash—and eye, 
And painting old age 
As the minutes move—by. 


There is a face 
On canvas painted: 

A drooping head 
With pensive brow,— 

An expression of 
Transcendent sweetness, 

It comes so clearly— 

I see it now. 

The head is draped 
In folds of linen; 

The purest shade 
Of spotless white, 

The hair falls loosely 
O’er the shoulders,— 

And gives to all 
Its golden light. 

The eyes though lovely 
Seem all terror,— 

As if with wildness 
They shield a fear,— 
While through the gleam 
There seeps a sorrow: 
Which tints all earth 
With dark despair. 

And in that tinge 
Of gloaming eye-flash, 

She puts to flight 
All claim of kin 
This puny world 


— 55 — 


Would fain establish 
Between her soul, 

And its sense of sin. 

* * * * 

A tinge of taint 
In cheeks so fair: 

A tint of guilt so slight,— 

That all of error 
Painted there. 

Could but,—retouch the right. 

A tinge of gloom 
In eye so keen,— 

A tinge of gloam so dim: 

That all of brightness 
Echoed there,— 

Could but,—proclaim the sin. 

A tinge of thrill 
In tongue so sad, 

A tint of mirth so sear: 

That all of gladness 
Gathered there,— 

Could but,—recall the tear. 

A tinge of thought 
In mind so dull,— 

A tint of themes so vague: 
That all ideas 
Pictured there,— 

Could but,—revive the plague. 
* * * * 

And now, with a smile, Dear, 
Too sweet to wear,— 

She powders her face 
And crimples her hair, 

And paints her eyebrows 
The darkest of brown, 

And smoothes from her face 
The slightest of frown. 

And then, in a tint 
Of the fairest of hue, 

She extends Dear,—her hand 
As a love-coy to you: 


— 56 — 



And coaxes a feeling, 

That of all worldly saints, 

There’s none quite so lovely 
As she—in her paints. 

Then she gives you a kiss, 

So soft Dear,—so slight, 

That you dream your own mother 
Has kissed you—Good Night,— 
And that you in your cradle 
Are now a small “tot”: 

Which all but this maiden 
Has somehow—forgot. 

And now,—with her arm Dear, 
She too, love, makes haste,— 

To encircle your stomach,— 

Or rather—your waist, 

And in all these endearments 
She moves with such grace,— 
That you lick off’ the paint prints 
Which blush print—her face. 

★ * * * 

A burst of sunshine 
Through an eye of blue: 

A brilliant gleaming 
In a dew dripped rose, 

A flash of lightning 
Which comes darting through 
Two dark-fringed lashes 
Which these eyes—enclose. 

A gleam of brilliants 
’Neath a lash of brown: 

A moon-pearl misting 
’Neath a cloud so fair: 

A sunset—gloaming 
When the moon is found,— 

A twilight twinkling 
’Neath a wreath of—hair. 

* * * * 

A dream of something 
We can’t forget: 

An eye-gleam sparkling 


— 57 — 


Through the hazy past, 

A twilight twinkling 
Still twinkling yet 
Which twinkling,—trickles 
Through the memory—fast. 

A dream of something 
So vague,—yet clear, 

A something certain 
As of shadows dim: 

A form of nothing,— 

Yet of something, Dear, 

Which shading,—shadows 

All the mind within. 

* * * * 

A sting from a trusted tongue: 

A sneer from a once loved lip: 

A wound from a trusted hand: 

Are the dreams which fancies skip. 

A smile from a friend long dead: 

A hope from a love entombed: 

A sigh from a dream long fled: 

Are the flowers which fancies bloom. 

★ ★ ★ ★ 

A dream of nothing, straggling near: 
Comes peeping through a foolish tear. 

A dream of nothing, still,—a dread 
Of something awful fills my head. 

A dream of nothing, circling nigh 
Now fills my ear with sadder sigh. 

A dream of nothing,—strange and queer 

How tales of nothing—reach the ear. 

★ ★ * * 

With a smile that never tires, 

And a word that never hurts, 

With a love that too admires 
Dreams of men of little worth. 

With a gleam that always brightens. 
And a tone forever sweet: 

With a heart that always lightens 
Burdens that the lowly—meet. 


58 — 


A touch of truth in tinge of thought 
Now tints the cheek with rose: 

A dream from youth through age forgot 
Now comes to seek repose. 

A youthful tint on shriveled cheek 
Now paints the blush with dreams: 

From youth a hint brings tints which speak 
Of thrills which throb the “teens”. 


A greed for wealth 
May sometimes rise, 

To peep through flashes 
Of the eyes,— 

And tint with “gold” 

The maiden's gaze: 
When she from love 
Alone seems—dazed. 

A greed for “coin” 
Ofttimes instills 
A touch of heart: 

Which throbbing thrills 
The cheeks with tinge 
Of fairest red,— 

And tempts the tongue 
To tell what's—said. 

A greed for “wealth” 
Does oft incline 
The ear to heed 
The drollest whine, 

And list to tales 
So stale when told, 

That nothing’s new 
But just the “gold”. 

A greed for “gold” 
Sometimes may seek 
A fool who knows 
Not how to speak 
One word of sense,— 

Or tinge his thought 


— 59 — 


With any word— 
Not best—forgot. 


A soft shell of something 
Blown up in a paste: 

All tinted and painted so fair, 

A flexible something—or nothing—so neat, 
O’erspread with an ambush—of hair. 

“Ha, Ha, said she: 

As she gave us the laugh, 

That giggle which goes with a yell: 

And she turned up her nose 
As she swung on her toes, 

And murmured something like “well”. 

A nightmare—or something, 

Broke out of her “pen” 

All fuming and snorting—so loud: 

A kind of shuffling 
Of something within,— 

Or something without—like a cloud. 

“Ha, Ha, said she: 

And well may she laugh 
The cynical sneer of a shrew: 

For I know of no queen 

Who would dare step between 

This girl with the “ha, ha” and—you. 


A treasure of thought 
All going to waste; 

Without a tongue to object; 

Worse than forgot,— 

Come on,—let’s haste, 

No-one has time to reflect. 

A treasure of dreams 
Growing old,—bute rare; 
Mouldering away in a sleep. 

A casket of gems 

Which no-one shall wear,— 

And at which,—no eye shall peep. 


— 60 — 


A treasure of thought 
In a punkin head : 

Without a hole to escape; 

Left there to rot 
For nothing is said: 

A sad,—and a solemn mistake. 

A treasure of dreams: 

Ideas so grand,— 

Locked up in a sullen lip. 

A sunspread of beams, 

Now look how he stands! 

My God! If he ever should slip. 
★ * * * 

Give me a smile; 

A “wee sma” grin,— 

One of those wrinkles 
From the chin, 

Which moves and spreads 
As if a trace— 

Of pleasant sunshine 
Crossed—the face. 

Give me a smile: 

A “wee sma” gleam, 

One of those wrinkles 
From a dream,— 

Neath drooping lash 
Where brilliants sleep 
Until in smiles 
They burst and leap. 

* * * * 

This outward gloom 
Is but a whim,— 

A shadow of 
A smile within: 

A kind of passing 
Sombre—shade,— 

Which tints the sun 
With mist—o’erlaid. 

Tis not a grief 
Which dims the light 
Of brilliant beams 


- 61 — 


Of eyes—once bright: 
But just a thought 
Of better days,— 

When all of hope 
Gave youth its rays. 

In twilight now 
Around us cling 
The hope-dreams 
Of a bouyant spring; 
For all of thought 
Was centered then,— 
On what we’d be,— 

Not what we’d been. 

Tis not so sad 
This gloom of thought: 
A kind of joy 
In hope forgot,— 

A sadness tinged 
With happy dreams 
Of better days 
And brighter themes. 


Oh for a hole in highest space: 

A hole where a fool can hide his face: 

A hole in the night away from the moon, 
Any old hole,—where a fool can swoon. 

Oh for a hole, a hole in space: 

A hole with no sides or edge to trace: 

A holely whole hole without any ends 
A kind of a nothing where everthing blends. 


Oh for a sob which gurgles—low, 

One of those sobs, which comes you know 
Away from the heart, when love has found 
That there’s nothing on earth, but a lisp,—a sound. 

One of those sobs which tints a smile. 

Oh for a sob which hides--the while: 

And brilliants the eye with glistening tear 
To shield from the world—all trace of fear. 


— 62 — 


Oh for a sob which smothers pride: 

One of those sobs—when hope has died,— 

A kind of a laugh without a thrill: 

A mirthless harsh chuckle—not soft, nor shrill. 

Oh for a sob—which no-one hears: 

One of those sobs which brews no tears: 

A sort of a sigh—so soft, so faint, 

That there’s nothing of grief on the face—to paint. 
* * * * 

A face on a foot: 

Well—a little bit higher : 

A smile on a knee— 

Near the knee—perhaps nigher: 

A kind of a grin 

’Bove the knee—’neath the hip,— 

Where like all foolish playthings 
I suppose it did—slip. 

A face so far down,— 

Well Sir—sure it is funny: 

With a smile on it too 

Just as broad as John Bunny: 

A kind of a boy’s head 
With some beard—between, 

A something on nothing: 

To see—and be seen. 

A face so low down: 

It were surely a stumble?— 

As if all his ideas 

Got mixed in the fumble: 

And wise looks,—and fool looks, 

Are too—out of place. 

So that what he intends Sir, 

Is not in his face. 

A face on a foot: 

Well near it—so near it, 

That no-one but he 

Would now wish for to wear it: 

A sort of a burlesque 
On all things of sense,— 

To prove that propriety 
Is somewhere—but whence? 


— 63 — 


A meagre man: 

Pale, tall and thin, 

With face so sad 
It seemed a sin,— 

To even think 
That he ne’er thought 
On any grief 
Now deemed—forgot. 

This pale tall man 
Of solemn look, 

Had on his face 
A written book: 

Of all the sadness 
Spread through space. 

Well wrinkled up 
Within—his face. 

Whene’er he spoke 
His words so wise: 

Seemed sneaking 
Creeping through his eyes: 

A kind of glance 
With hidden tongue, 

From which all wisdom 
Somehow—sprung. 

And when he thought: 

Oh! what a pose! 

As if each muscle 
In his clothes,— 

Were tightened with 
A stretch of thought: 

Now where was I? 

I’ve—clean forgot. 

* * * * 

Oh believe me, if all the sweet smiles 
Which I’ve seen, 

Were to circle in one pretty face: 

They could not bring to me 

A hint of my dream 

Which is somewhere suspended in space. 

Nor if all the bright eye gleams 
Which glance off the eye, 


— 64 — 


Were to nustle ’neath one lovely lash: 
Could they ever induce me 
This dream to deny— 

And not seek for the phantom—or ask. 

Oh believe me, if all the sweet tones 
Which I’ve heard, 

Were to blend into one perfect tongue: 
They could not bring to me 
A lisp of a word 

Which could add to this old tone—unsung. 

Nor if all sweet memories 
Of all times now past. 

Were to center in one lovely nook: 

Could they ever supplant Dear, 

This dream which shall last 
As long as the mind too—can look. 

* + t * 

A smile through tears 
A laugh with groan: 

A kind of chuckle 
Tinged with moan. 

A sort of sigh: 

Half sob—half thrill,— 

A throb of joy 
v Which sorrows chill. 

A ray which lights 
The ebbing gloom: 

A kind of tint 

Which trails the swoon— 

A sort of gleam 
Which paints the end : 

And gives to hope 

Perhaps—a friend. 

* * * * 

And now all sorrows 
Seem to smile,— 

And joy itself 

Not worth the while,— 

And life seems too 
A sort of chaff, 

Which disappears 
With—one loud laugh. 


—£ 5 — 


Perhaps,—who knows, 

Twere just as good, 

That sadness tinge 
The sweetest—mood: 

That, joy of hope 
With death is cast 
And sorrows seem, 

Alone to—last. 

* * * * 

Just a wrinkling of flesh,— 

Not a sigh from the soul: 

A kind of a meaningless 
Pucker—or hole: 

A spreading of something 
O’er nothing—within: 

A kind of a shuffling 
Of nose cheek and chin. 

Just a series of sounds— 

Not a thrill from the heart: 

A kind of a chuckingless 
Cackle of art,— 

A splashing of something 
Like laughter—instead: 

A kind of a nothing 

Which seeps from the head. 

* * * * 

A love thought—with heartache: 
A love lisp which chills. 

A love gaze which lingers 
On haze o’er the hills: 

A soft gleam of someone 
Suspended in space: 

A smile, Dear, the fairest 
Which e’er thrilled a face. 

A sweet breath of perfume 
Which comes with the breeze: 

A sort of a chuckle 
Which tickles the trees. 

A kind word from someone: 
From nowhere—but near,— 

A hand clasp and lip touch 
From no-one—so Dear. 


— 66 — 


Just a gleam of a golden dream: 

A glimpse of the long ago 
A tinge of smile through a long long while: 
When the youth tints use to flow. 

Just a dream of a foolish scheme: 

A hope of the long ago. 

A kind of trace of a thought in space 
E’re these youth tints fade to snow. 


Just a fool from a later school, 

One of those saws who know: 

When to begin 
And where to come in, 

And how this world should go. 

With just a hint of a safer tint 
Of when and how to start: 

A kind of a thought 

That God forgot 

When tearing worlds apart. 

Just a God with a manlike nod 
Wrapt up in worldly style: 

A kind of a hole 

Wherein a soul 

Peeps out at men—to smile. 

With wit Divine to sparkle—shine 
How truly wise he mopes: 

With all of space 
To tint his face,— 

How much from him—God hopes. 


A real smart guy with brain so bright 
That all of truth and faith and right, 
Seemed sealed within his little lid: 

Where other themes than self have hid. 

This head so fair,—so filmy soft. 

Seems ever soaring up—aloft: 

To where the stars and moon and sun 
When puzzled might—take comfort from. 


— 67 — 


Instead of reaching heights so grand 
Where “it” all nature could command, 

“It” glides through ruts and—deep ravine, 
And sheds but little light—between: 

Like balls of fog wherein the light 
Imprisoned roam—to startle night;— 

And sun beams swirl in foggy streaks 
O’er gloomy swamps in—midnight freaks. 

* * * * 

Trickling tears through brilliant eyes: 

Out of sorrow for tomorrow: 

Nothing painful in today, 

Just expectant of what may 
Come tomorrow as a sorrow,— 

Foolish fears of filmy sighs. 

And—tomorrow 
Free from sorrow: 

You and I 
Shall fly away 
From some—today. 

Trickling tears through brilliant eyes: 

Just a bubble of some trouble 
In the hazy far away,— 

Floating globules—just a spray 
Of a sorrow from tomorrow: 

Foolish fears of filmy sighs. 

Come—tomorrow 
From this sorrow: 

You and I 
Shall fly away 
From our—today. 

* * * * 

In the old arm chair, 

In the ingle nook 

Where the fire glistens and gloams: 
Tingling the themes 
And tinting the dreams: 

Those dreams which build the “old home”. 

In the old arm chair 
Near the fire-place, 

Where the fire flickers and glows: 


— 6 &- 


Shadowing thought 
With faces forgot 

With a light which love alone throws. 

In the old arm chair 
In the ingle nook. 

While the fire crackles and burns: 
Painting on space 
Those tintings of face; 

The tintings which rise from the—urns. 

In the old arm chair 
Near the fire-place, 

Where the fire smudges and flares 
Talking to mother 
And sister and brother 
And telling them all—my cares. 

★ * * * 

Out through the haze 
Of—long ago, 

A film of face 
Comes all—aglow: 

And as we smile 
This friend and I, 

A kind of gloom 
O’erspreads—the sky. 

This film of face 
Has eyes so bright, 

That all of joy 
Seems to delight 
In sparkling through 
In bubbling gleams: 

A light with hope 
For all of dreams. 

And now, these tints 
Soft tinged and fair 
Seem fading with 
The touch of care: 

The hand of time 
Here too does spread 
The color—which 
Paints all the dead. 


— 69 — 


A face—once healthful 
Now—so wan: 

With all the tints 
Of beauty—gone: 

So pale and languid 
Seared and sad,— 

That any hope 

Seems worse—when had. 

★ ★ ★ * 

Into the mists of the morning 
Shadows pass from the night: 

Shifting the gloom of their mourning 
For colors which tinge with the light. 

Fairies gaudy and filmy: 

Spangled with gems so rare, 

Covered with brilliants so lovely: 
Floating and moving on air. 

Mixed with the haze of the sunbeam, 
Gliding gracefully through: 

Circling shifting and spreading 
These phantoms—bright with the dew. 

Shadows of faces—now fading: 
Memories distantly dim: 

Figures perfect as morning 

Crowned with youth and with vim. 

★ ★ ★ * 

Do you suppose a bumble bee 
Has either sense or charity: 

To bumble here,—and bumble there: 

And pretty maidens shock and scare : 

By its uncalled for—bumble-ing 
O’er flowers fair upon their hair: 

Which starts them all to fumble-ing, 

And too perhaps—to stumble-ing 
From off a chair to save their hair 
And other—wear: 

And do strange stunts most humble-ing. 

Do you suppose propriety 
Has any curb on this same bee: 

When bumbling here,—and bumbling there, 

He bumbles where there is no hair: 


— 70 — 


Right o’er—Oh My,—that precious spot 
Upon your head—just on the top: 

Which spot by you is ne’er forgot 
And by this bee seems now most sought, 

A fumble-ing and bumble-ing: 

While you go rolling tumble-ing 
Upon the floor—to save a roar: 

Which roar—might prove most humble-ing. 

* * * * 

Melancholy eyes,—sweet yet sad: 

Velvety soft,—with a tint of glad: 

Glinting with gleams 
Which gleams a sorrow,— 

The ray of hope for some—tomorrow. 

Melancholy eyes,—dreamy still, 

Gazing beyond the circling hill; 

Looking through space 
At nothing near, 

Glistening softly—through a tear. 

Melancholy eyes—expectant sad: 
Watchfully waiting for hope—once had: 

A cherished longing 
Of love—still sought: 

A gleam of sweetness in a thought. 

Melancholy eyes,—sad and bright: 

Looking through gloamings as the night, 
Closes upon 
Each dying day: 

With the same sad look,—so far away. 

* * * * 

A long low chuckle, 

A kind of groan: 

A sort of whistle 
In a monotone. 

A lisping stammer 
Of something sad: 

A whispering whistle 
Of nothing glad. 

• A tint of trouble, 

A twitch of pain, 

A kind of throbbing 


— 71 — 


Of blush-spot stain: 

A shifting shading, 

An outward trace 
Of unhappy gloamings 
Which cloud a—face. 

* * * * 

All within his little face 
Seems to him a world in space: 

Naught without—unless within, 

Can interest his thought—or him. 

Cold and earthy is his eye: 

Everything—but “me” and “I”, 

Seems to slip his painted thought 
All other fools are clean forgot. 

In his large and wobbly head: 
Everything that he has said, 

Seems to circle there in space 
Trying to break through his face. 

Anything that we may say 
Dodges him in every way: 

Our cutest grunt he may assail 
While wobbling ’round to catch his tale. 

* * * * 

Sailing through the upper skies: 
Peeping into starry eyes. 

Speeding some,—but stopping soon 
To tickle him,—who owns the moon. 

Sailing onward—ever far: 

Trying to count every star, 

Tagging this one—touching that: 
Wondering where we now are—at. 

Listening to the angels talk 
’Bout the neighbors ’round the block: 
As the saints in quiet prayer 
Drop their heads—to at us—stare. 

Sailing onward—ever high: 

Passing this and that star by: 

Tagging that one—touching this, 
Wondering if we any—missed. 


— 72 — 


BUD, BROOK, BUSH 
AND TREE 




In a little cottage 
Near the ocean’s roar: 

Where the salt spray 
Splashes against the door, 

And the spruce tree 
Zephyrs the scented breeze: 

And all of summer 
Seems between the trees. 

In a little cottage 
Neath the hill-tops—nigh: 

Where old tints 
Linger—to tinge the sky, 

And the song birds 

Whistle—the songs which please 

And all of summer 

Seems to fill the breeze. 

In a little cottage 
Near to nature’s trill: 

Where each soft note 
Wanders from hill to hill. 

And the brooklet 
Echoes with gurgling ease: 

And all of summer 
Seems about to sneeze. 

In a little cottage 
Neath the stately pine: 

Where all sweet tongues 
Whisper the sweetest line, 

And all of nature 
Is tuned with glees: 

And the sighs of 

Summer—but touch the keys. 


When roses blush and pansies bloom, 
And hyacinths breathe sweet perfume, 
And daisies paint the fields with white. 
And narcissus embalms the night: 


— 74 — 



When morning glories tint the trees, 
And jassamine makes sweet the breeze, 
And all the woods with blossoms grow: 
Tis then we love to dream of snow. 

* * * * 

The whirlwind is past, 

The fog is gone, 

The sun is near. 

And so is dawn. 

The whirlwind is stilled, 

Its roar has ceased, 

And light has filmed 
The distant east. 

The whirlwind now sleeps, 
And naught but sighs 
Seem breathing through 
The ’wakened skies. 

The whirlwind now dreams: 
Its distant roar 
Tells but the anguish 
Of—a snore. 

★ ★ * ★ 

I love the groves 
Where shadows—fleet: 

Flit o’er the ferns 
And skip and leap: 

Where flickering sun rays 
Dodge between,— 

The olive oaks 
And poplars—green. 

I love the groves 
Where shadows float: 

And move through trees 
Like phantom boats: 

Where filtering sun rays 
Seep between 
These olive oaks 

And poplars—green. 

* * * * 

Clinging to the side of the mountain: 
Trying to reach its snowy top, 


— 75 — 


Thirsting for a sip from the fountain 
Which shall satisfy our cravings: 

There to stop. 

Listening to the roar of the cataract 
Rushing through the canyon—very deep: 
Like unto the voices of the multitude 
Explaining what we’l do—when asleep. 

Treading o’er the steeps of uncertainty: 
Feeling for the footholds of truth: 

Grasping tight the rocks—in emergency,— 
That hang o’er the precipice 
Of youth. 

Trembling on the brink of eternity: 

Gazing on the vastness of space, 

Dreaming on the tongueless taciturnity 
Which all of earth’s dreaming cannot trace. 

* * ★ ★ 

A little rose-bud 
On drooping stem: 

About to open 
And spread its leaves. 

A little love-thought 
Of nature’s ken 
Now wrapt in perfume: 

In perfume grieves. 

A little rose-bud 
On drooping stem, 

Now doomed to wither: 

And wither—die. 

A little love-thought 
Of nature’s ken: 

Why should this rose-bud 
So youthful—Why? 

* * * * 

To dream of flowers 
And pluck a rose, 

And then wake up—to find: 

All these bright colors 
But tinted doze,— 

Is too Dear Friend—unkind. 


— 76 — 


A dream of flowers 
In lovely hints: 

A sleep midst tinted rose,— 
Makes waking hours 
Too—but hints 
Of dreams in other—clothes. 


* 


A little nook—not much—a spot: 

A place where sorrow is forgot. 

A little space—where all of smile 
Seems concentrated—for awhile. 

A little nook where all is bright, 

And all of darkness shuns the light: 

Where laughter thrills the midnight sky,— 
And naught in nature knows a sigh. 

A little plot—a tiny nook: 

Where all of laughter from the brooks. 
Seems gurgling through a tiny stream 
To thrill all nature with its theme. 

A little nook,—a goodly place: 

Where all things lovely—send a trace, 

And any dream of any thought 

Gives back to life—a joy forgot. 

* * ★ * 

Not a leaf astir, 

Not a sigh awake. 

Not a breeze to breathe 
Through bush or brake: 

A monotony of silent hush 
Which hangs o’er all of earth. 

Not a bird a-flight. 

Or fly—on wing: 

Not a bug or bee 
To buzz or sting: 

All—all as dead as spooks and sprites 
Which flee from day and speed the nights. 


★ 


A vast expanse of nothing near, 
Without a trace of hope or fear: 
Without a thought of joy or pain— 
A sigh or tear—or even rain. 





— 77 — 


A vast expanse of spreading haze, 
Where sizzling sun and dazzling daze, 
O’ertint each thought with prickly heat, 
And dreams of winter grow more sweet. 


On the hills 
In clustered spots 
Grow the wild 
“Forget me nots”. 
Bobbing lightly 
With the breeze 
As—if about 
To—speak or sneeze. 

Neath the poplars 
Rustling sigh— 

There—you’l find 
The wild rose—nigh, 
Sprouting from 
Some rocky womb: 
Blooming breathing 
Sweet perfume. 

Through the woods 
In shady nooks,— 

Close to little 
Bubbling brooks. 

Grow the ever 
Creeping vines: 

Twisting—rambling 
Through the pines. 

On the fields 
And everywhere, 

There you’l see 
The “daisies” stare, 
Looking up— 

As if they knew 
All about the world 
And—you. 

* * * ★ 
Out in the woods 
Away from the roar: 

Of the wagons and autos 


— 78 — 


And noises—which bore. 

Out in the woods 

With the birds and the bees, 

The crickets the beetles 
And bugs—if you please: 

Out in the woods 
Where each living thing 
Seems to love all the others 
Enjoy them—and sing. 

Out in the woods 
Away from the soil 
Of the office, the counter 
And factory’s toil. 

Out in the woods 
Where the tree-toads and frogs, 
With rabbits and squirrels 
Play “leap frog” o’er logs. 

Out in the woods 
Where each thing—alive, 

Seems happy contented 
And without work—to thrive. 

Out in the—woods. 

* * * * 

Away from the City 
Its noise and its strife: 

Away to the woods 
Where the birds enjoy life. 
Where the wren 
And the robin,— 

The catbird and thrush, 

All whistle together: 

In concert—they gush. 

Away from the City 

Its dust and its heat, 

Away to the woods 

Where the odors are sweet, 

Where the grass 

And the clover, 

The blue-bells and rose 

Spread perfume together 

As perfume too—grows. 

* + + ★ 


— 79 — 


See the ripples 
On the river, 

How they glisten 
Shine and shiver: 

Like bright diamonds 
In the sun,— 

Glistening splashing 
Every-one. 

Watch the large ones 
How they shudder: 

Toss and skip 
O’er one another, 

Trembling twisting 
Near the shore— 

Then a splash 

And all is o’er. 

* ★ * ★ 

A chill morning breeze 
Tickles the trees: 

Which shake with the laughter 
Of all the small leaves: 

Now dewey and bright 
With the neck-lace of night 
And tinged with the gleam 
Of the rising sun’s light. 

A clear chuckling breeze 
Tickling the trees, 

With thrills of pure laughter: 

A gurgling of glees;— 

While robin and thrush 
With their songs break the hush. 
And sun paints the morn 
With a smile and a blush. 

* * * * 

The distant cow bell 
In subdued tones 
Comes softly tinkling 
O’er hills and vale, 

And as I listen 
I catch the “lowings”, 

And the ring dove’s cooing. 

And the blue-jay’s wail. 


—SO— 


Those distant hill-tops 
Where cows now graze,— 
Are the same old hills 
I used to roam: 

When thrush and robin 
In happier days 
Sang variations 
Of “Home Sweet Home”. 


Away from the city 
With all of its greed, 

Its culture and critics, 

Its saints and its creed; 

Away to the mountains 
Where hills pierce the sky 
And brooklets through canyons 
Rush on with a roar 
As ever and ever 
They splash dash and pour; 
Away to the mountains 
Where winds laugh and sigh 
And nature to nature 
Ne’er utters a cry. 

Away from the city 
With all of its pearl, 

Its fashions and tinsel. 

Its snarl and its whirl; 

Away to the mountains 
Where snow peaks from high 
Kiss summer in valleys, 

And eternal spring 

Haunts each of the hill-slopes 

And—thrushes e’er sing;— 

Away to the mountains 
Where trills through the sky 
The “peace and good will” psalm 
Yes—Glory on High. 

★ * * * 

There’s a touch of autumn 
On the trees: 

A thrill which tickles 
With each breeze,— 


— 81 — 


A rustling sound 
Which—nearer grows, 

As through each leaf 
The wind now blows. 

There’s a hint of autumn 
In each touch: 

A chill which comes 
Through autumn—much: 

A newer tinge 
Which tints with haze 
The older dreams 

Of summer days. 

* * * * 

There’s a gathering sound 
Of the rustling leaf, 

As the wind now whistles high: 

A tone more shrill 
Which tempts to chill 
The autumn’s gentler sigh. 

There’s a shuffling sound 
Midst the old oak trees, 

As the wind now fiercer grows: 

A tone too—cast 
With the winter’s blast 

And the flight of the drifting snows. 
* ★ * ★ 

The softest air 
Now stirs the trees, 

Like shadows touching 
Phantom sheaves: 

A kind of touch 
Which comes unseen 
As fancies touch us 
In a dream. 

The softest sound 
Too breathes a sigh; 

A lisp which comes 
From nowhere nigh: 

A kind of voice 
Which seeps from death: 

A word soft said 
In under-breath. 


— 82 — 


The softest light 
Now shades the trees 
And makes more soft 
The slightest breeze: 

And too—all gleams 
Seemed gloamed in sleep, 
As if each beam 
But dreamed to peep. 

The softest tints 
Too tinge the mist, 

As if the shades 
With dreams are kissed: 
A kind of tinge 
With haze between,— 

A something real 
And yet—a dream. 


Out in the woods 

Where the rustling leaf 

Gives a tongue 

To each breeze which blows 

Under the trees 

Where the blue-bells sleep 

And the grass 

Is kissed with the snows. 

Out in the woods 

Where the wintry blast 

Gives a thrill 

To the blue-jay’s shriek: 

Under the trees 

Where the dry leaves clasp 

All the tongues 

Which in summer squeak. 

Out in the woods 
In the deafening roar 
As each breeze 
To the other shouts: 

Under the trees 
Where the dry leaves soar 
With the winds 
As they circle—out. 


— 83 — 


Out in the woods 

When the snowflakes sigh 

As they dodge 

Through the flying leaves: 

Under the trees 

As the winds rush by 

And the voice 

Of each breeze too—grieves. 


I know a hill e’er since a boy, 

A kind of hill—more like a toy, 

A little knoll close to a brook, 

Which seems just built to please a spook. 

A hill so small, that no-one knew 
Where it began or how it grew, 

A little hill so very small 
That it seems—no hill at all. 

A ledge of rock skirts all this hill: 

As if a flounce—or “lady’s frill” 

Were sewed upon the bottom ’round 
To give a crimp to all the ground. 

A ledge of rock—out-cropping here, 

Which now too seems to disappear: 

Within this hill as if ashamed 
That with the hill it should be named. 

★ ★ ★ ★ 

A little diamond upon the snow, 

Gives back to sunbeams its gorgeous glow 
And through the moon’s soft hazy light 
It gathers soft gleams throughout the night. 

Oh little diamond—all glistening rare, 

There’s naught in jewels which can compare 
With your bright glintings of changing gleams 
Where every sparkle is of sweeter dreams. 

Oh little diamond of opal mist 

Which sun’s ray straying has stooped and kissed 

A tiny snowflake of crystal cold 

Painted with splashes of purest gold. 


Oh little diamond of glistening snow 
There’s naught in glintings which cannot glow 
In your bright flashes of changing gleams: 
Where every sparkle is of brighter dreams. 

* * * * 

The gayest summer tinting 
Now seems rusty. 

The purest crystal brooklet: 

A dull stream; 

The sweetest fume of new mown hay 
Smells musty. 

And the sun paints nothing, but 
The saddest dream. 

The brighest summer morning 
Now seems gloomy. 

The brilliant mid-night moon 
A dismal gloam, 

The faces which—most merry— 
Through their smiling 
Now seem saddest to a boy 

Away from home. 

* * * * 

Listen to the rain 
As it comes down 
With an oozy sound 
Upon the grass,— 

Through crisping leaves 
Upon the trees: 

How it drips—and drips 
In measured taps 
And myriad raps 
Upon the roof,— 

And streaks the panes 
Of window glass. 

And to the wind 
As it blows around 
With a slushy sound, 

And thrills the grass. 

And twirls the leaves 
Upon the trees, 

And forces rain drops 
Through the cracks 


— 85 — 


In brisk attacks 
On through the roof, 

And creaks the panes 
Of window glass. 

Listen to the roar 
Of thunder near: 

As a lurid flash 
Lights up the grass 
Through crisping leaves 
Upon the trees;— 

How it rolls—and rolls 
In tumbling swell 
As if it fell 
Upon the roof 
And shattered panes 
Of window glass. 

And now—the scene 
Of the autumn calm: 

As the sun—bright-tints 
The freshened grass,— 

Through crisping leaves 
Upon the trees; 

And the robin’s note 
Comes clear and round 
As she treads the ground 
Neath the dripping roof, 

And peeps through panes 

Of window glass. 

★ * ★ ★ 

The frouzy mourning 
Of black soot and smoke. 

Which be-drabble houses 
Through their chimneys—broke, 
From the swishing drizzle 
Of the driving rain: 

Paint on each cottage 
A streak of pain. 

The trees seem dismal 
Through the misty light,— 

And the sparrows mournful 
As they chirp in flight,— 

And the dog’s low whining— 

— 86 — 


With the wind’s shrill moan, 
Paints on each echo 
A sobbing tone. 

* * * * 

The whispering trickling 
Of a tiny stream, 

Brings back to memory 
A pleasant dream: 

When o’er the brooklet’s 
Moss covered brink,— 

I stretched my shadow 
To take a drink. 

The rippling waters 
In this silent place, 

Calls back to memory 
A pleasant face: 

While my own reflection 
In this tiny stream 
Gives tint to nothing 
In this old-time dream. 

A few short weeks Sir, 

And the rose shall fade, 

The trees grow quiet 
Without leaf—or shade: 

The birds more silent 
Than the trees—become, 

And all of nature 
With—no smile or song. 

A few short years Sir, 

And the smile shall fade, 

The tongue grow silent 
Without hope—to aid; 

The cheek with wrinkles 
Shall be wrapt in gloam 
And all of nature 
Shall be out—not home. 


Just a flower fading o’er, 

Bud and blossom—blushing more 
Withering petals—drooping all 
Slowly crisping then—to fall. 


— 87 — 


Just a flower fading fast: 

Buds and blossoms do not last, 
Withering petals soon decay: 
Slowly crisping too—today. 

* ★ * * 

A shady nook ’tween mountains high, 

With sparkling brook—a-babbling by, 

And oak and elm and ever-green 
O’er-toppling all—to hide the scene. 

A silent nook where nature’s bowers 
O’er-tint the brook with fragrant flowers: 
Where waving buds—with peeping bloom 
Waft incense through the—month of June. 

A nifty nook—so neatly rare 

Where crystal brook with brilliants bare 

Now whispers lisps of love so sweet, 

And all the trees—as lovers speak. 

A drowsy nook—where waking hours 
But dream of brook and fragrant flowers, 
Where rustling leaves on tree-tops nigh 
Join waving buds—in one love sigh. 

* * * * 

In the evening twilight 
Mong the gathering shade, 
Through light and darkness 
As the shadows fade, 

Through trees—past hedges, 

O’er bridge and stream, 

In the summer stillness: 

Tis a pleasant dream. 

In the evening twilight 
Near the church-yard nook, 
Where the twilights mellow 
The gurgling brook, 

And graves are green 
And the daisies peep 
From the earth-mound mantles 
Of those who sleep. 

In the evening twilight 
Near the village green, 


— 88 — 


Where the grass is waving 
And the dew-drops gleam, 

Where the cow-bells—jingle, 

And the echoes dwell, 

And the youth’s gay banter 
Blends with each cow bell. 

Tis a charming evening 
So mild and bright,— 

Tinged with reflections 
Of the coming night: 

The scent of clover 
With myriad blooms,— 

Now cover over 

These fragrant—tombs. 

* * * * 

And now a cloud does intervene 
To curtain off the lover’s dream: 

A sparkling ray of moonlight hint 
Has tinged the fog a creamy tint. 

This hollow filled with creamy mist, 

New painted from this lover’s wrist, 

Gives to each form a lover’s face 

Which through the fog—but lovers trace. 

★ * * * 

A Morning Glory in glory waking 
Upon a tomb, now bright with dew: 

A beautiful bud of brilliants breaking 
With dew-drops bloom, of sun kissed hue. 

A Morning Glory in glory glooming 
Upon a tomb now sunk with age,— 

A violet bud of beauty blooming 

Where naught but gloom can tint the page. 

★ * * * 

And now a gleam of sweetest sunshine 
Comes twinkling through the midnight sky. 
And rests upon a rustic turn-stile 
To tint my dreams—when you were nigh. 

« 

And too,—a thought from sweetest old-times 
Seems clinging to this self-same stile,— 

And tinges through this ray of sunshine 
To tint all dreams and make them smile. 


— 89 — 


Tis a dreary day and spirit voices 
Seem to sigh through the trees 
And bushes nigh: 

And all on earth is sad and drear 
Without one smile to coax a tear 
Or joy to stay. 

There goes a man—a haughty heart 
With eyes aloft, scanning the sky,— 

And stumbling oft; 

But seeking still for things—above 
Without one face on earth to love: 

Oh mournful man. 

Here comes a child—a bunch of beams, 
A little tot—so full of life 
And void of thought: 

With brilliant eyes so charged with light 
That all of darkness takes to flight,— 
From his sweet smile. 

Oh what a squawk—’tis from a crow, 

The pesky thing, which squawking 
Squawking on the wing,— 

Seems bent to drive away all cheer 
And leave us nothing but the—tear 
And mournful talk. 


Fair drop of rain 
Which comes so slowly: 
Sneaking as ’twere 
Through moonshine holy, 
And stealing mist 
From the tinted haze, 

To form a pearl 
Of these tinted rays. 

Fair drop of rain 

Frorq heaven descending, 

On oyster shell 

With moon-tints blending 

Stealing within 

This shell so gloomy 


— 90 — 


To form a pearl 

So—hazed and dreamy. 

it it it it 

Flora, Goddess of fruits and flowers, 

Thy sweetest bowers are decked, in vain: 

Thy bed of clover—is now all over 
A—world of pain. 

Flora, Goddess of fruits and flowers. 

Bring pleasant hours to us again: 

Sow sweet fumed clover—the whole world over 
To heal our—pain. 

We’l ride on the crest of the wave: 

On the wave 

Which is storm tossed and rough. 

We’l float on the billows—which rave: 

On the wind driven white foaming surf. 

We’l ride through the breakers which break, 
And we’l fly 

With the spray of the foam: 

We’l leap o’er the rocks and o’er-take 
The winds as they circle and—moan. 

We’l sing to the roaring wild wave 
As it tosses 

And splashes and—howls; 

We’l shout with these billows which rave 
And echo the hoots of the—owl. 

We’l dash with the waves through the rocks 
And we’l rise 

With each splash on its crest; 

And we’l laugh with the waves at the shocks 
Which nowhere will leave us at—rest. 


Forget—aye forget: 

Tis a strange truth: 

We do—forget. 

The smile emerges from a sorrow 
To tint a joy upon tomorrow. 

And all of sadness,—grief,—regret. 
Of yesterday—we do forget. 


— 91 — 


Forget,—aye forget, 

How strange this truth: 

We do forget. 

The sun now creeps through winter’s shadows 
To chill the daisies on the meadows, 

And summer smiles have fled—and yet 

We too have smiled, and now—forget. 

★ * * * 

Oh—for a flower 
Just one lonely leaf 
Well faded in colors 
To heighten the grief,— 

Which hovers around us 
And tempts us to sneer 
At the fate which has found us 
Without smile—or tear. 

Oh for one hour,— 

Just one little leaf 
From memory’s colors 
Of youth’s tinted brief, 

When hope cast around us 
Bright halos—so near, 

That the world always found us 
In smiles—with no tear. 

it it it it 

The sky is draped in deepest gloom: 

A mourning tinge now tints its noon, 

And all of mirth from earth seems fled 
And all things breathing—breathe but dread. 

The winds now blow—and how they sigh, 

Each breeze comes moaning from the sky, 

And as they pass they howl and shriek 
As if, of death alone—they speak. 

The twisting clouds of deep blue haze 
Comes tumbling on—in wrathful ways,— 

And all is dark except the flare 
Of lightning—which zig zags the air. 

The rain now pours—and too the crash 
Of thunder follows every flash,— 

And all the trees with terror thrilled 

Are echoing a grief---instilled. 

* * * * 


92 — 


The tie which binds 
May not be near,— 

But faded like 
Through distant year: 

May come to thrill 
With softer touch,— 

A spot—or nook, 

Admired much. 

When melancholy 
Tints a dream. 

It somehow hallows 
Too—the scene, 

And gives to thought 
A sweeter charm,— 

Which tinges each 
And every—form. 

No memories 
So dear as those, 

Which add to joy 
A thrill of throes,— 

A smile with sorrow 
Peeping through,— 

A laugh—slight toned 
With echoes—blue. 

Of all the nooks 
In by-gone scenes, 

The brighter spots 
Are those—where themes 
Of hope and love 
Were tinged with tear: 

The joys in those 
Are ever—dear. 

Hurry skurry,— 

Let us rush—be gone, 

Let us run pell mell 
To the hope—beyond: 

Let us scatter like the faggots 
As they flicker in the blaze: 
Let us run—Hurry skurry,— 
Else be lost in the haze: 

Ah—well. 


— 9 £- 


Hurry skurry,— 

Let us leap—jump high, 

Let us try—pell mell 
For this hope—then die: 

Let us circle like the whirlwind 
As it tosses all the leaves: 

Let us run,—Hurry skurry 
With the wind as it grieves,— 
Oh—well. 


Away off yonder 
Where the Ozarks rise, 

And the tree-tops purple 
In the distant haze: 

Where the sunbeams slumber 
In cloudless skies,— 

And nature ponders 
Throughout her days. 

Where—the soft winds swaying 
The old oak boughs, 

Seem singing sleep psalms 
To the birds on wing,— 

And the dreamy tinkling 
Of bells on cows, 

Adds a drowsy droning 
To the sounds—which cling. 

Where—brooklets murmur 
Amid the trees,— 

As if too sleeping 
Or—half awake,— 

And the crickets—chirping, 

And the “hum of bees” 

Gives a tone of snoring 
To each breath you take. 

Where—the robin’s whistle 
And the thrushes’ trill 
Seemed tinged with soft notes 
From a far off dream,— 

Where whispers echo 
From hill to hill,— 


— 94 — 


And the sun ray mellows 
To a moonlit—gleam. 


Fond memories leap 
From each clinging vine, 
Through the silent hush 
Of this tongueless tomb; 
Sweet smiles now peep 
From “Auld lang syne” 
Through each rose’s blush 
And each pansy’s bloom. 

How soft the sheen 
Of those distant rays. 

As they tint the smiles 
Of those friends—long dead: 
Oh happy dreams of the 
Of the olden days: 

Those sweeter smiles 
Which from earth have fled. 


To live and sigh 
Midst fragrant flowers 
In this world of ours: 
Where each balmy breeze 
Whispers sounds to please, 
And song birds fill 
Each vale and hill 
With melodies,— 

Is a happy theme 
For a—boyhood dream. 

Oh how we sigh 
For fragrant flowers: 

To coax sweet hours, 

And a balmy breeze: 

With a sound to please. 
And trills from a thrush: 

To add a touch 
Of one real joy 
To this dream of—boy: 
Before we—die. 


— 95 — 



Out in the fields 
Among the daisies, 
Breathing air 
So pure and sweet : 

Moving through dreams 
Where filmy fairies 
Phantom these winds 
With forms so neat. 

Out in the fields 
Among the blue-bells, 
Climbing o’er hills 
Through wood and glade,— 
Whistling with thrush, 
Robin and blue-bird,— 

Out of this world: 

And into its shade. 

Out of this world 
Among the flowers: 

Tagging bee 
And butterfly: 

Tinting themes 
With angel’s colors,— 
While rustling wings 
On high—seem nigh. 

Out in the fields 
Where crystal brooklets 
Lisping notes 
Of bubbling glee: 

Join the tongues 
Of soft swished zephyrs 
In songs which thrill 

Bird, book and tree. 

* * * * 

A little tinge of setting sun, 

Which tints the trees and brook: 

A dim outline of soft sunshine 
When sun takes its last look. 

A little glint of twilight soft 
Which tints the night with day; 

A kind of smile which for awhile 
Sends forth a flickering ray. 


— 96 — 


In the mountains 

Where the maddening roar 

Of the torrents pour,— 

And seem to encore 
Each spurt and each splash 
As the waters dash 
Against boulder and rock 
With a threatening shock, 

And flashing jets leap 
From the depths of the deep. 

Then—the musical laughter 
As the waters grow softer 
In some shady nook 
Which the stream over-took 
Like a swift running boy 
Gurgling gladness and joy, 

And still bent on roaming 
Through fountains all foaming 
With no time to cool 
In the shade of this pool. 

Oh—for a mountain home 
Up near the sky,— 

Where the stars and the sun 
And the moon all seem nigh, 
Where the snows of the winter 
In summer are near,— 

And the soft winds of summer 
In winter—too cheer. 

Where the call of the robin 
And trill of the thrush 
Blend with the sounds 
Of the waters—which rush: 

Oh—for a mountain home 
Up near the sky,— 

Where living is loving,— 

And heaven is—nigh. 


A little nook where comfort sleeps, 

Where denser shade through shadow creeps: 
A kind of nook where all is shade,— 

And yet where sunshine—is inlaid. 


— 97 — 


A brilliant light—still not a glare, 

A bright though dimmer tint of air: 

A kind of tinge—where opaline 
Is mixed with softer tints of sheen. 

A mellow gloam where sunbeams glow 
Dashed with dusk—as cool as snow: 
Where sunny bliss and shadows spill 
A million spots—this nook to fill. 

From Paradise—perfection peeps: 

A trill from song-bird ever speaks: 

And a little brooklet softly throws 
A spray of perfume—through the rose. 

★ ★ ★ * 

Now the blue-bird softly sings 
As she spreads her waving wings, 

Off she sails with joyous song 
To the land—where summers throng. 

Off to spring and summer tints 
Where no chill of winter hints,— 
Where no whiff of fozen air 

Tinges hope with cold despair. 

* ★ * * 

A little wren—now scolding—peeps 
Through leaves of deepest green,— 
Because, above her fledging sleeps 
And we—may spoil its dream. 

This little wren—asleep—now dreams 
The dreamy dreams of wren,— 

I wonder if its tinted themes 
Are like the dreams of—men. 

* * * * 

An old, old house 

In a far-away place 

In a little nook near a road : 

Where old old oaks 

Run a twittering race 

With the bird—the bee—and the toad. 

An old old house 

In a far-away place 

Now covered with ivy and moss: 


— 98 — 


With corridors wide. 

And rooms so vast,— 

That everything in it—seems lost. 

In this old old house 
In this far-away place. 

In this castle so roomy and gaunt: 

In silence we list 
To songs that are sung 

By the tongues of the spirits—which haunt. 

In this old old house 
In this far-away place 
Where echos—re-echo around: 

Are the choicest of songs 

In the sweetest of tongues 

If you only,—but search for the sound. 


Out of bondage— 
You and I,— 

Free as zephyrs 
As they sigh 
Through the trees 
And under-brushes: 
Tickling flowers 
Into blushes,— 
Stealing perfume 
From the roses,— 
Filling this—and 
That maid’s noses: 
Whispering to 
Fays and witches, 
Tossing dry leaves 
Through the ditches. 
Chasing bubbles 
O’er the brook, 
Forming whirlpools 
In each nook: 

Free—forever, 

Free to fly: 

Out of bondage 
You—and I. 


— 99 — 







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PSALMS 




Always say Good Night, Dear, 

Always say—Good Night. 

Never say Good Morning 
To the rising sun : 

Some little tiny cloud Dear 
May overcome its light, 

And then ’twill not be day Dear, 

Night—has come. 

Always say Good Night Dear, 

Always say Good Night. 

Never say Good Morning 
Till the day is o’er: 

Wait until the darkness 
Has tinged the tinted light, 

And then ’twill be Good Night Dear, 

For ever-more. 

Always say Good Night Dear, 

Always say Good Night. 

Never say Good Morning 
When the day is near,— 

Some throb primed with sorrow 
May dim tomorrow’s light, 

And sunbeams jewel eye-gleams 
With a tear. 

Always say Good Night Dear, 

Always say Good Night. 

Never say Good Morning 
Till the day is o’er,— 

Wait until the sun’s ray 
Is tinged with evening’s light, 

And then ’twill be too late Dear 
For ever-more. 

* * * * 

Of sweet sounds I never grow weary. 

Of soft sighs I’m never in fear: 

But bright smiles though ever so cheery, 
Like day dreams do soon disappear. 

To sweet tongues I love for to listen. 

To love lisps which seldom draw near: 
For love gleams whenever they glisten,— 
In closed eyes—do soon disappear. 


— 102 — 




My dreams of future 
Are passing by,— 

Like floating mistings 
Which drape the sky: 

I cannot touch them 
These fleecy clouds,— 

My dear dead phantoms 
Within their shrouds. 

My dreams of future 
Are fading fast,— 

These fleery nothings 
Are floating past,— 

And while I watch them 
I love them much,— 

I’d like to kiss them 
Just—one last touch. 

My dreams of future 
And too—what dreams 
Of summer settings 
Midst winter scenes, 

And love-lisps tingeing 
Each sweeter tie,— 

Till all of sorrow 
With love—would sigh. 

My dreams of future, 

Oh—what a dream,— 

Where smiles like sunbeams 
Would tint each theme: 

Where every tongue tie 
Would twine a love,— 

And every eye-gleam 

A love glance—prove. 

★ * * ★ 

If all we seem 

Were felt within 

How much of faith were lost: 

The love we dream 

Now but a whim 

Were then with hate embossed. 

If all of thought 
Were typed without, 


— 103 — 


How much of ink we’d lose: 

Deceit forgot 

The truth would pout 

And tongue with print—confuse. 
* * * * 

An idiot posing 
In silent thought: 

Where wit is dozing 
And fun forgot: 

In deep abstraction 
To self assigned,— 

Now comes reflection 
To a simple mind. 

A reservation 
Where self is sin 
And all temptation 
Runs wild within: 

In mental maelstrom 
Where thoughts whirl around 
And paint new logic 

On a tongue profound. 

★ * * * 

Life is all a parting Dear, 

Broken there—and welded here. 

Today is but tomorrow’s birth 
And yesterdays have stolen mirth. 

Joy is gone and pleasure parts: 

Pain has come to shrivel hearts. 

Today is but tomorrow’s birth 
And yesterdays have fled with mirth. 

★ * * * 

Aeons and aeons agone 
When no-one lived 
And winds soughed symphonies 
Which no-one heard: 

And love but whispered 
Its softer—themes 
In the rhythmic murmurs 
Of the streams,— 

And all of grandeur 
Knew no tone; 

But the one which 


— 104 — 


Nature calls its own: 

How sweet these psalms 
How truly sweet 
To Him who cares not 
For—conceit. 

* * * * 

Alas and alack 
And now for a cheer: 

A sweet thought 
Of something 
To drive off a tear: 

A kind of a terror 
Resembling a thrill,— 

A wavering like tremble 
A sort of a chill. 

Hurra and Hooray,— 

And now for a shout. 

A whoop Sir,— 

A big one,— 

And now that its out: 

I feel kind of free-er 

As if Sir—at last 

The wavering like tremble 

And tear too—is past. 

* * * * 

If there’s no sin without intention,— 
I too in mind, should then seem pure, 
For every word that I can mention 
Is meaning less each day—I’m sure. 

Then should I die upon tomorrow: 
Believing less nor heeding rules, 

Like idiots and infants—crawling. 

To paradise I’ll go with fools. 

* * * * 

Here’s to Palm Sunday, 

Eat a “fig”: 

And on Whit Sunday 
Roast a “pig”: 

And tempt St. Michael 
With a “goose”: 

And for Shrove Tuesday 
“Pancakes” choose. 


— 105 — 


Then on Good Friday 
“Cross Buns”—hot: 
Ash Wednesday 
A “salted cod”: 

And Christmas Day 
A pudding “plum” : 
Now—New Years day 
A “good old bun”. 


Oh for a throb which no-one knows, 

A trill in a tone which always grows, 

A tinge in a hope which ever flares 
To drive from our dreams all dark despair. 

Oh for a faith which thrills with love, 

Now—here,—not there,—nor up above: 

An ever tuneful throbbing—blent 
With fairest dreams of sweet content. 


A thought in touch 
With nothing much: 

A kind of guess 
Where no and yes 
Have equal chance 
To guide the glance. 

A mind so fraught 
With nearly naught, 
That every taste 
Can track a trace. 

And naught in kind 
Is well defined. 

A kind of haze 
Where dreams but daze 
A mellowed light 
Where day and night 
Do always blend 
And—neither end. 

A constant whirl 
Where thoughts do curl 
And mixing fast 
Grew none at last. 


— 106 — 


An endless dream 

Without a scheme. 

*' * ★ ★ 

A tinge of fame 
Fell from a name 
And rolling ’round 
Took root in ground 
And grew a tree 
Which shaded thee. 

Now zephyrs light 
Breathe through the night 
And touch the leaves 
Which fame but breathes 
Through this old tree 
Which shaded thee. 

Sweet dreams too moan 
From breezes blown 
Where whispers tint 
The faintest hint 
Of this old tree 
Which shaded thee. 

And now we’l soon 
New paint the moon 
Which sheds a light 
Of silver bright 
Upon this tree 
Which shaded thee. 

it if it if 

Beautiful thoughts 
And lovely words: 

An after dinner speech. 

Wind on the stomach 
Is often heard. 

Where tongues can never reach. 

Beautiful words 
Without a deed, 

A syphon filled with fume: 

A kind of an empty 
Scentful seed 

Of flowers which ne’er bloom. 


107 — 



A tongue which paints 
Such pretty thought, 

A brush so primed with air: 
That every tone 
Of artful touch 
Is tinged with tints more rare. 

A tongue so sweet 
With honied phrase 
That all of happy hints, 

Seem gurgling through 
Its twirling ways 
In sparkling brilliant tints. 


Come now Karma 
Count the deck, 

Deal the cards 
And errors check: 

Evils—sin and 
Mis-deeds—spent. 

Sum them all 
And be—content. 

That, Oh Karma 
Life has run: 

Keep the good 
That I have done: 

Save it Karma— 

Though a speck 
Sift it from 
My well worn deck. 

★ * ★ * 

St. Fillian, Come 
Brew me a tear,— 

A tiny drop 
To ease my fear: 

The smallest drip 
Of common sense,— 

To buoy my hopes 
Of “where” and “whence”. 

For “which” and “what” 
Have doubtful sound, 

And “who” and “why” 


— 108 — 


Are most profound,— 

And “here” and “hence” 

Are sometimes missed,— 

But “where” and “whence” 

Are—never guessed. 

* * * * 

Away off at nowhere 
Where somewhere now ends, 

And daylight in no light 
With deep night now blends, 
Where something with nothing 
Now mingles in space,— 

And nothing seems something 
With nothing to trace. 

Away off at nowhere 
Which somewhere is found, 
Where nowhere and somewhere 
Are both circling ’round, 

Where something gives nothing 
A trace of its touch,— 

And nothing gives something 
A touch of—not much. 

Away off at somewhere 
Where nowhere is seen, 

And somewhere with nowhere 
Leaves nothing between,— 

And nothing with something 
Seems shifting in space. 

And something in nothing 
Seems too, out of place. 

Away off at somewhere 
Where nowhere begins, 

And somewhere and nowhere 
’Round nothing now spins, 

Away off in nowhere 
There gleams for awhile 
A something from nothing 
Which seems like a smile. 

* * * * 

Away off somewhere, 

Where? No-one knows. 


— 109 — 


Where the twilights heighten, 
And the dawn too—glows: 
Where the moon is melting 
In the gloom of night, 

And the sun seems hidden 
In a softer—light. 

Away off somewhere, 

Where no trouble brews, 
Where winds ne’er hasten 
To spread sad news, 

Where each tongue trebles 
With the thrills of joy, 

And life hopes soften 
To the dreams of—boy. 

Away off there Sir 
I’d like to fly,— 

As the twilight saddens 
The Western sky,— 

And the full moon’s shadow 
Just tops the hill,— 

And all of nature 
Seems sad and still 

Away off there Sir 
In a sudden flight. 

As day to evening 
Says—Good Night: 

In that softer hour 
I’d like to roam,— 

And—there—and ever, 

Find—a home. 


Let the words of my mouth 
And the throbs of my heart 
Be pure Oh Lord in thy sight: 

Let the thoughts of my mind 

To my tongue Lord impart 

Those themes which to Thee seem upright. 

Keep safe Lord thy servant 
From all stain of sin,— 

Let my motives be pure in Thy sight: 

— 110 — 


Oh Lord give me power 
To wrest with a vim, 

Deceit from dominion and might. 

* * * * 

Out of the past 
Shadows are cast 
Into the future sigh, 

Unpleasant themes 

Peep from the dreams 

Those themes from dreams gone by. 

A vain regret,— 

A thought unkind,— 

One of those themes 
Which lag behind,— 

Comes now to tint me 
With its gloam,— 

And make me dream 
Of youth and home. 

Now past our youth 
Untinted truth 

Dispels all phantom’s sphere, 

Those youthful themes 
Were pleasant dreams 
But dreams now tinged with tear. 

Oh home sweet home,— 

How sweet the thought 
Of spirits gone 
But not forgot— 

How good those dreams 
Which then—so kind, 

Could e’en leave grief 
To lag—behind. 

* ★ * * 

The flesh a myth 
Has disappeared, 

And Christ the God 
Is risen: 

No dream of death 
Need now be feared 
For soul has wrecked 
Its prison. 


—Ill— 




The fleshly myth 
Is gone—has fled, 

And spirit reigns 
Supreme: 

Tis but the flesh 
Which died—is dead, 
The soul still dreams 
Its dream. 

* * * 

A thought of love 
And then of hate,— 
And then these two 
Entwined: 

A kind of dream 
Where angels seem,— 
And demons smile 
Unkind. 

A thought of hope 
And then,—despair, 
And too—these two 
Combined: 

A kind of dream 
Where demons scream 
And no-one seems 
To mind. 

★ * * 

Perhaps ’tis well 
To sit in state 
And fold our arms 
And look 
Into the dome 
Of eternal space, 

From out our 
Little nook. 

And too perhaps: 

To scan the stars 
And count them o’er 
Or—try, 

To begin at one 
And end at none, 

And catch the sun’s 
Bright eye. 


— 112 — 


An idle gleam 
Of this smaller scheme 
May give our minds 
Some thought 
Of a lighter vein 
Where phantoms reign 
And facts are soon 
Forgot. 

For when we look 
How well we see 
The sky—the stars 
The moon,— 

All gilded glints 
Of a fantasy 
To tinge and tint 
The—tomb. 

* * * * 

And now that life 
Has almost run. 

And space seems 
Drawing—near,— 

The dream of time’s 
Eternal dawn 
Paints hope tints 
On the tear. 

And too—this tear 
Has almost dried 
And smiles seem 
Breaking through: 

This dream of life’s 
Eternal morn,— 

Brings youth 
To me—to you. 

* * * * 

Out into the great beyond: 
Where? No-one knows. 
Uncertain when—or whence: 
Each one goes. 

Who goes next? 

As the summer’s suns pass on 
Into the known past beyond: 


— 113 — 


So shall the future days become 
Brilliant with 
More summer’s sun. 

All who were have gone before, 

And all who are—shall too explore. 

Shall a time come 
Of time—no more. 

Who shall next be asked to go. 

To solve the riddle of where to go: 

To pass beyond this mortal ken 
And learn this secret 
So dear to—men. 

Cut into the great beyond: 

Where? No-one knows. 

Uncertain—When—or Whence? 

Each one goes. 

Who goes next. 

★ * * * 

A shade of the days: 

Just a shadow of night 
Which comes in the day time 
To mix with the light: 

A sort of a dimming 
And dusking of sun 

A kind of a day that the night leans upon. 

A shadow of night 
In the flare of the sun, 

Where sunlight and twilight 
And moonlight—seem one, 

A sort of a shade 
Which settles its gloom 
On the rays of the days 
Until chased by the moon. 

★ * * ★ 

Away—away to Galilee 
To the little sea of Galilee: 

Of dark blue water 
A lovely sheet,— 

Mong naked hills 
Where flowers sweet 
In wild profusion 


— 114 — 


Skirt its edge 
Twixt sea and earth 
To form a ledge. 

Away—away to Galilee 
To the little sea of Galilee: 
Where snowy Hermon 
Stands—sublime 
A sentinel 
Of ancient time,— 

O’er capped by snows 
Of aging years 
Which glisten with 
A Saviour’s tears. 


Twas at sunset in October 
When all nature grows more sober, 

No tree had waved nor bird had sung 
And all the hills seemed ranged upon 
The serest brown of saddest cast 
Where melancholy painted—best. 

Shepherds lonely croning softly: 

Dressed in skins of beast so roughly, 
Knitting as they watched their flock 
Droned in tones of saddest talk. 

Distant mountains shrinking dimly,— 
Ghosts of peaks which peeped out grimly 
Into dreary barren space,— 

Gave to thought a themeless trace. 

Yet,—at times there came upon us 
Thoughts of grandeur which had stung us 
Into thrills of another day: 

On this—the old Flaminian Way. 

Rome itself—now lay beyond us,— 

Solemn—sad, although it found us 
On this road so bleak and lonely 
Where group of domes and spires—only 
(The rest was hidden by a hill) 

Now broke the gloom and tapped the thrill. 





May your shadow always and ever grow 
So that tints of twilight in evening’s glow. 

Shall measure tracings when sun has set 
To paint your pathway with kind thoughts—yet 

May your smile Sir always and ever gleam 

Like the glints of morning when the dew-drops gleam, 

And joy be painted—in heart—on face,— 

When naught but sunset is left to—trace. 


ANY MAN LEFT 


Perfumed winds now float in space 
Tinted with tobacco’s trace, 

As this mist in wavelets pass 
Each young laddie with his lass, 

Spins around in awkward grace 
Glancing—prancing—face to face. 

And now too—the fire flares. 

From within its genius stares. 

And settles on the eyes of maids 
Reflecting gleams to chase the shades 
From faces furled in wrinkled fold 
As each now steps the cotillion—bold. 

While now too—the lively air 
Makes more lively—each one there, 

As on the corners all do prance 
The ra-ta-tap of the old time dance. 

Now they’re bowing, if you please: 

As if each tried his best to sneeze. 

And failed in sneezing thought he’d sing,— 
And doing neither—just did swing. 

Oh—for the days of the old time dance: 
Hurrah—Hurray for the old time prance, 
I’d sooner jump, and roar, and swing, 

And help to cut the “pigeon’s wing” 

Than bow and scrape and slide with grace: 
Hurrah—Hurray—for the old time pace. 


—lib— 

























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